


And the Mind Follows

by A41



Series: To Load, To Aim, To Fire. [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Dani:Who-let-Bright-have-weapons??, Dreams and Nightmares, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Get Thee to Therapy, Hail Edrisa Queen of Awkward, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, JT:KEEPBRIGHTNORMAL2020, Malcolm Bright Needs a Hug, Mental Health Issues, Murder, Not you Martin, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Serial Killers, minor gunshot wounds, sorry malcolm, team as family slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 21:40:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 52,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27353611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A41/pseuds/A41
Summary: Malcolm Whitly has simple goals: convince Gil he’s stable enough to work as a consultant and stay far enough from his past for that to be true. A new case gives him the perfect chance to prove himself: find out who is killing members of New York’s elite, without sabotaging his mental health. But as Malcolm spirals deeper into the chase; chilling parallels to his own rediscovered memories emerge.With a killer on the loose and the past clipping at his heels; Malcolm risks forgetting the most important goal of all: don’t let his serial killer father back into his life.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly
Series: To Load, To Aim, To Fire. [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1997704
Comments: 179
Kudos: 181





	1. An Unexpected Call and an Unexpected Guest

**Author's Note:**

> Here we go! 8 months to the day from when I started the draft in Word. I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing
> 
> Canon divergence from Season 1 Episode 4 Designer Complicity

**_“Genetics is crude, but neuroscience goes directly to work on the brain, and the mind follows.”_ **

**_~ Leon Kass_ **

****

**MALCOLM**

Malcolm can’t read the title of the book, but he knows it says **_Ainsley Whitly_** with the same bone-deep knowledge he has of its contents. The book contains words and phrases such as _sister_ and _driven_ , _liar_ and _lovely_ , _fierce_ and _must-be-protected_. The tome is small, no longer than his wrist to his fingers, (such a slight book to hold the depth and breadth of their relationship) and cornflower blue; blue like the dress she ripped when they hid, tiny and giggling under the linen draped tables of one of Jessica Whitly’s famous soirees.

Jessica’s book is a deep pink turning red, as large and ornate as the jewelry she favors. Set next to Ainsley’s, the contrast is striking, like Jessica done up for dinner, like wine spilled across a flawless carpet. It sends him stumbling when he tries to lift it from its perch, heavy with words like _Mother_ and _drunk_ and _fear_.

The books are aligned, equally spaced, centered on dark wood pedestals strong with family and familiarity. Behind them extends a wall of uncertain height. It doesn’t _seem_ like a tall wall, but no matter how Malcolm strains his eyes, he can’t see the top of it. He can’t tell what color it is either, something like white; but looking closer just makes his eyes burn. The effect isn’t so bad where the pedestals have cast their shadows, enough for him to decide he’s right about the white. That satisfaction quickly dies when looking around he can’t find any light source strong enough to cast shadows at all. That’s not to say the space is dark, he can see the bookshelves to his left and right quite clearly. They sit in rows on either side, forming some kind of narrow alley and, like the wall, they have no definitive height.

Turning back, he is struck by how impeccably balanced the whole scene looks. Despite the books being such different sizes, the display seems perfect and complete in all ways; so perfect that Malcolm doesn’t understand the sudden overwhelming urge to _search,_ nor the skin-crawling anxious certainty that something is missing. He scans fruitlessly through the bookshelves, one after another, title after title of names he _knows_ but can’t read, before stopping as a sudden vertigo takes hold. For one endless moment he is somehow _above_ the wall and can see a labyrinth of bookshelves opening out below him. Mile after mile, the shelves are arranged with the same kind of haphazard order found in cities built atop towns formed over villages. The moment stretches, till, with a jolt, he finds himself in his own body, back amongst the stacks. He reaches out to trail a hand over Gil’s book, certain that if he opened it, he would find _safe_ scrawled across innumerable pages. It’s almost enough to calm the persistent anxiety, but then he spots the faded tome reading **_Jackie_** just below it, and the impulse to search rises back up in him.

He turns and hurries out of the alley, into a hall of more shelves. From here he can see the lights, floating wisps of ever-changing colors that hang in the darkness above, softly illuminating the entire corridor. It doesn’t have what he’s looking for, so he moves on. A gust of wind surges as he turns down a new path, sending pages rustling like leaves. Turning back reveals _three_ paths where he was sure there were only two. Despite this, he’s not frightened. The knowledge of the books is tucked up right next to the certainty of his safety; nothing will harm him in this place. The wind follows him into the next hall, sending a chill up his spine; though maybe the chill is from how the corridor seems to change behind him once again, to the side and never in his sight, as shifting as the lights above. He has the idea that it doesn’t matter _which_ path he takes; the labyrinth is evolving to get him where he needs to be.

He takes a left, then the second right, and finds himself amongst piles of books. Stacked on the ground, cover to cover, they spiral up into the darkness that lies beyond the lights. They loom in infinite towers, like ancient trees that made their home here long ago. Strangely unwilling to touch them (to pry open these books seems a violation) he skirts between them, getting farther and farther from the sprawling city of shelves. Ducking around one stack with what looks to be manuscripts tucked between the tomes, he turns, and nearly hits a tower directly ahead of him. It’s wide enough he couldn’t fit his arms around it (even if he could get past the aversion to touching it). Its balance is precarious, heavy with titles like **_Claude_** **_Springer_** and **_Carter Berkhead_**. It’s leaning against a similar tower, both on the edge of falling and spilling a flood of words like _killer_ and _made_ and _conditioned_ across the floor. Uneasy, he slides through the gap between the towers and finds himself standing in front of _the_ book.

 **_Martin Whitly_ ** **.**

There is no pedestal, though the book sits at the same height, and the walls… there are no walls, just the same darkness from above filling in around until it bleeds into the floor, a stretch of familiar burning white. The twisting lights seem faded here, as if the atmosphere itself was warned to stay away. Malcolm reaches out a trembling hand to the deep red cover, fearful and anticipatory, drawn in, like bird to snare, with the knowledge that _this_ is what he’s looking for. There is a flash of something like clarity, and he tries to pull back; but he finds his hand remains hovering in the air, unable to stop but unable to continue. He knows the path behind him is gone. If he turned there would be nothing but him, the book, the floor and the black. There is no use. The wind hisses to a stop as he opens the cover.

He can’t read it. The words twist and blur before his eyes. He thinks they must say _Father_ or _killer,_ but the unspoken knowledge he’s received since he arrived is gone. He turns the page, desperate to find just _one_ recognizable word, but even as he searches the marks start to fade, getting lighter, as though some inexorable force is draining them away. He flips through page after page, then recoils in horror, seeing the ink now staining his hands in dark smears. Every page he turns, it gets darker, pulling from the page to coat his hands, thick and wet and suddenly _red._ With every page turned, every symbol that fades, the certainty of his safety fades with it as the book relentlessly leaks its unknown knowledge. The lights have gone red and heavy, and Malcolm can now hear voices coming from the book. They say no words, just make a horrible, unintelligible sound; desperate cries for help that emerge only as screams. In the grip of sudden terror, he slams the book shut only to see the new title:

 **_Malcolm Whitly_ ** _._

\--- --- --- --- ---

Malcolm jerks upright, awake now. He spits out his mouth guard and fights the urge to check his hands for ink. Or blood. Or whatever. A few racing heartbeats later he gives in, there’s no one else in his apartment to judge him for it. He looks down and… nothing. Same old hands, soft palms, clean nails, leather restraints round each wrist. The sweat-soaked sheets welcome him as he thumps back, staring at the ceiling while his breath evens out again. His dream has soured the possibility of more sleep, surprising, considering its relative mundaneness. But despite the lack of blood and gore and fighting for his life, the dream leaves him oddly unsettled, like something is miss—No.

He reaches a hand to unhook his restraints. It’s easy enough, even with the lingering shakes; both the tremor and the cuffs are long familiar bedfellows. Sitting up, the rustle of the sheets mimics the phantom rustle of book pages; he turns on the radio to drown both out.

Yoga is next; there’s a spot in the middle of his apartment where the sun bathes the wooden floor in creases of light. His back deliberately to his wall of bookshelves, he settles himself there. Soaking in the sun like a cat, pushing back the remnants of his dream with deep and steady breaths through the crown of his head, he grounds into the warmth of the floor. The lingering, uneasy tension reluctantly loosens its claws. By the time he takes his pills, Malcolm feels almost human enough to attempt a proper breakfast.

The fridge is not as barren as usual, thanks to Ainsley. Fresh fruit (hard-earned by listening to his sister gripe about being sent to report on a farmers’ market, of all things) is crisp enough to tempt even Malcolm’s still churning stomach. The pantry is less useful, but he scrounges up some bread and a half empty bottle of syrup. Perfect.

French toast in the pan; the golden smell of it makes a pleasant backdrop as he reaches for his daily affirmation. “I have the power to choose how the world affects me.” He reads the little card aloud. He repeats it as he cuts the fruit, running it over and over until it _sticks_. “I have the power to—” the ringing of his cell cuts him off. He glances over to where the screen is flashing, too far for him to see the caller id. Few people would call him in the morning, and even fewer of them would he want to talk to. Desperate for a delay, he ignores the incessant vibration against countertop, and finishes plating the toast.

Toast on plate. _Buzz._ Pan in sink. _Buzz._ Breakfast on counter, ready to— _Buzz._ Caving, he finally looks: _Unknown_ reads the caller id, but the number underneath is one he recognizes. He hadn’t known what to put as the contact (Dr. Whitly? The Surgeon? ~~Dad?~~ ) so instead he memorized the number. He debates not answering, but he knows the phone will continue to ring until voicemail forces it to stop; and arranging and re-arranging the fruit until his plate looks like something his mother’s chef could be proud of only provides so much distraction. His gaze falls to the little affirmation card sitting innocuously on the counter. _I have the power to choose how the world affects me_. “Ah, screw it.” He lunges for the phone. The silence on the other end when he picks up throws him; did he miss the call after all? He slumps in something not unlike relief.

“Hello, my boy!” His father’s voice rings across the line, genial, cheerful, not at all alarming. Malcolm jerks hard, smashing his hip into the counter. He bites down on a string of curses, pulling at his sleep pants to see if there’s a bruise. A pause. “Malcolm, you there?”

He tugs his pants and his focus back into place. “Why are you calling Dr. Whitly?”

“Oh, come on now. Don’t act all distant on me. Can’t a man call his son now and then?”

“I guess it depends on whether the _prison_ gives him phone privileges.” His voice sounds far steadier than he feels.

“Ah, you always had a sense of humor… don’t remember it being so _sharp_ though.” A dramatic sigh kicks up static, Malcolm pulls the phone away from his ear with a grimace. “Must’ve been that damned FBI.”

“I am well aware of your opinion of my—” A odd noise cuts him off, “Are you _eating_?”

“Yes? It is breakfast time; us killers eat the same as everyone else. I do hope you’re eating; you’ve been looking rather thin.”

To the left of Malcolm sits the untouched plate; to his right, his hand starts up its familiar shaking. “Why are you calling?” Malcolm grabs for his affirmation card and taps the edge repeatedly against the counter. _I have the power to choose how the world affects me_.

“You know we had a visitor the other day,” Dr. Whitly says instead, “A prison evangelist. The place was all astir, few like to bother with us crazies.” A laugh, until his voice turns serious, intent. “He spoke on the book of Luke, a series of parables; the lost sheep, the lost coin… and then a lost son.” A pause, then deliberately casual. “Interesting stuff.”

Malcolm hesitates, wary of taking the bait. “The prodigal son is an allegory. The rich man welcoming his wayward son home to symbolize the way the Lord welcomes all sinners who repent, with open arms.”

“As any father would,” Dr. Whitly says, intense and all-consuming, like dark clouds forcing themselves over a clear sky, “No matter how far his son has strayed, even if it took ten years.”

Malcolm snorts. “Everyone knows of the doctor’s tendency towards god-complex, but isn’t this taking things a bit far, Dr. Whitly?”

A grumble comes over the line. “I see you haven’t lost your tendency towards deflection.”

“And you still haven’t answered my question.” Malcolm waits; then, “Why are you calling?” No answer. Three times Malcolm has asked, and yet… As the silence stretches stark and probing, _Malcolm_ is the one feeling pressure to _answer_. Every conversation with Dr. Whitly is a test (how do you respond to _this_ , what if I mention _that_ , can you rate your level of pain?) a sick puzzle to piece together patterns of behavior, how a person _works_. It’s a game, a game where the Surgeon wrote the rule book and refuses to give anyone else a copy; and the only way to win is _not to play_. “Goodbye, Dr.—”

“You know you can’t avoid it.” Dr. Whitly’s voice hangs heavy with something that Malcolm associates with red light and screaming pages. “You can try to hide, but deep down, you know we’re the sa—”

Click.

Malcolm stares down at his perfect plate of breakfast. It looks good, delicious. His stomach twists.

“Well, I guess I’m skipping breakfast today, huh, Sunshine?” From over in her cage she stares her bird stare as he sweeps his plate into the trash. “Don’t look at me like that.” Her little yellow head cocks, green feathers rustling as she sidesteps, but her black eyes keep staring. “This has nothing to do with him. I just…” He sighs and buries his face in his hands, “Felt like throwing out perfectly good food, Christ, I’m a mess.”

A loud sound startles him. For one wild, insensible moment Malcolm’s convinced his thoughts summoned _him_ , like the proverbial devil, before reason catches up. Just a knock on the door. All very normal, if unexpected. He clatters down the stairs, uncertain of who’s waiting for him. His mother wouldn’t have knocked, she’s far fonder of busting in whenever she pleases. Ainsley would have texted (a hard-earned lesson for both of them), so who else is there? Maybe someone stumbled against the door? Either way, he reaches for the knob.

“Gil! Hi.” His mentor stands in the doorway, rubbing ungloved hands to ward off the chill. Sweater and coat, solid and reliable, eyes bright and looking at him with a fond amusement.

“You going to let me in?”

“Of _course_!” Malcolm leads Gil up the stairs, twisting his mind in loops, trying to think of _why_ Gil is at his apartment. “So…”

“You have no idea why I’m here, do you kid?” Gil walks past him, sharp eyes roving over his apartment, cataloging and noting everything. It’s a practice Malcolm is familiar with, though he usually sees it at a crime scene. But why Gil would do it now… 

“What makes you say that?” Malcolm leans, very casually, against his counter. Gil shoots him a sardonic look, gaze traveling over him top to bottom: bedhead, shirtless, sweatpants, one bare foot rubbing against the opposite ankle. Malcolm flushes, realizing his state of undress.

“Let’s try this.” Gil gets right up in his space and crosses his arms. “Your continued employment consulting with the NYPD is contingent on…”

Malcolm points at him. “Therapy!”

Gil raises an eyebrow. “And I’m here because…”

“You’re overprotective and don’t trust me to do it myself?” Malcolm tries.

Gil gives him a gentle cuff to the back of the head in response. “To show support and solidarity.” He steps back. “You’ve got five minutes to get ready or I’m dragging you out like that.”

In the end, it takes more like nine before he’s bounding back to Gil, washed, dressed, and overall, much more presentable. “Sorry to leave you here so long, I just—” He trails off, “Gil?” In the space he’s been gone, something in his mentor has shifted. It’s Detective Arroyo standing in his kitchen, incongruous with the morning sun and previous light atmosphere. Gil opens his mouth to speak, and it feels nothing like the man who offered a scared kid some candy and—Wait, candy. “Crap! I almost forgot, hold on just a minute.” He roots through his cabinets and emerges victorious, clutching a shopping bag. Expecting at least _some_ teasing for buying something from a store with plastic bags (his Mother would be appalled), he braces himself but nothing comes. Disconcerted, Malcolm tries to change the dark mood that seems to have settled over his mentor.

“You know, you really don’t have to take me.”

“No.” Gil smiles, dark eyes intense and searching. “I insist.”


	2. Respect of the Job

**GIL**

Over his many years on the force, Gil’s met and worked with gifted profilers of all types. They’re a bit of an odd breed, comes with getting shuttled around the country to view the detritus of humanities worst, he supposes. The skilled professionals can take a scene apart, pushing past the horror to divide the staging from the real, the wheat from the chaff. Down the other end, there are profilers who get caught up in the pathology and _technique_ of the killer, focused less on _stopping_ and more on analyzing, producing meticulous reports that leave Gil weeding through lines stinking of barely hidden admiration. Once or twice, he’s even been stuck with some incompetent, shooting off information like a lecture but only spreading confusion in an already complicated investigation. Gil’s seen ‘em all; he knows what makes a good profiler. And the one now fidgeting in his passenger seat?

Bright’s a smart kid. He has intelligence and incredible deductive reasoning, paired with more mental tenacity than his body can keep up with. Give him a case and he’ll turn it upside down, inside out, and backwards, then do the same to himself to create a lead. He may not present his observations gracefully, but any detective worth their salt can see the kid’s skilled. Add Bright’s uncanny understanding of a killer’s mind…

Yet somehow, despite all his skills, Bright always seems to miss one important fact: Gil’s a detective and a damn good one according to his closure rates. Obvious forgetfulness, ragged appearance, the full plate of breakfast dumped in the trash? If _Detective Arroyo_ missed all that, he should turn in his badge and resign himself to the ravages of old age.

It’s worrying, if Gil’s honest with himself. He knew, when he brought the kid in for the copycat case, that Bright would twist himself up over it. He internalizes cases; the killers, the victims, gets so deep in their heads till he knows what they did because that’s what he would do too. Then he vomits the whole thing up, and that’s the profile, that’s the killer.

A copycat of the Quartet. Gil had three bodies on one hand, and the Surgeon’s son on the other. _No one_ knows those cases like Bright. He could trace the copycat, could pick up the stench of his father’s kills even sprayed over by the motives of a different killer. And if a deep down part of Gil hoped the kid could let go of the guilt he wraps himself in, find some closure?

Maybe Gil’s a fool, but he took him on the case. Ever since, he’s watched the kid’s back, kept an eye out for any sign of a downward spiral. Now, as Gil eyes Malcolm’s restless movements, the way his gaze never settles for more than a few twitching seconds, the barely there look of him; he worries he may have missed a few.

“So…” From the sudden lack of fidgeting, Malcolm is aiming for casual. “Anything new down at the station?”

Gil suppresses a smile. Nice try, kid. “Nothing for you.” Gil takes a left, dodges a… something in the street, then veers around a jaywalker. The rude gesture this elicits he meets with a scoff. Driving in New York never gets old.

“So, there is something!” Stillness giving way to tense, barely suppressed excitement, Malcolm looks over, bloodhound on the scent. For a moment, Gil wrestles with himself; another glance at Malcolm’s eager face decides it; he can have some fun.

“Well,” The mirror allows him a nice view of how the kid’s hanging on his every word, “I wasn’t going to tell you but—”

“Is it a murder?” Malcolm’s gaze burns into the side of his face.

“— _But_ there’s been one case puzzling all of us at the precinct.” Gil raises his hand to cut Malcolm off before he can speak and gets, in life’s usual irony, cut off himself by a hotdog truck. “We had some suspects,” he continues, “but no one’s panned out.”

“Bring me in on it! Come on, Gil, let me help.” He looks so earnest Gil almost feels guilty. Almost. 

“Some criminal…” He gives a pause to play the moment. The kid’s leaning forward, totally bought in. “Keeps stealing Detective Tarmel’s lunch.”

“Gil!” The cry is _indignant._ Gil meets it with a level voice.

“Right from the precinct’s fridge, it’s brazen. JT’s _livid_.”

“Seriously?” Malcolm collapses back in his seat. “I thought you had a _real_ case.”

“Alright,” Gil allows, making sure he can see Malcolm in the mirror, “Then how about the case of why your breakfast was in the trash this morning?”

Malcolm stares back at him, eyes wide, mouth sliding open a bit. He recovers, expression closing off as he lets out a scoff. “Oh, I see. All this,” he gestures around the car, “Is just a ploy to interrogate me. Figures.”

“I’m not trying to interrogate you, Bright.” Gil attempts eye contact again; but the kid is staring out his window, hard, like there’s a view, like they haven’t been stuck at a traffic light since before Gil brought up breakfast. He softens his voice. “Malcolm. Look, I’m worried about you, and as your boss I—”

“Shouldn’t be involved in my personal life, Detective Arroyo.” Bright cuts in, sharp. Which —

“It’s not your personal life when it interferes with your capabilities as a profiler—”

“It doesn’t interfere with any—”

“I can’t hire a consultant who starves himself!” The words burst out, and Gil hits the steering wheel with a solid thump. Not too hard, not violent, because Gil doesn’t let his anger rule him, especially around Malcolm. He’s seen the kid flinch away too many times for that. There’s no flinch now, but Malcolm’s gone quiet and still, a sign his focus has shifted from winning the argument to getting it _over_.

They both sit there, Gil’s harsh breaths breaking over the gentle rumble of the idling car, the wordlessness stretching out before Gil decides, enough. He turns to face Malcolm, full on, no shields for either of them, and this time he waits. It takes a moment, but wary blue eyes meet his.

“You support your body, and it will support your mind.” Gil reaches out (something tight and twisted inside releases when Malcolm doesn’t startle) and taps the kid’s temple. “And your mind is what I need from you.” Malcolm blinks twice, gives a jerky nod. A shuddering breath in seems to wake his lungs from where they’d frozen over, not daring to move. Letting out a long, relieved rush of air, Gil mirrors him, watching as movement creeps back in; when Malcolm gets like that he goes still as the grave. Malcolm’s still watching his hands, but he’s twisting them, tapping his fingers, rubbing at his thumb. Relieved the kid’s back on track, Gil turns back to the road and eases the car forward again. “Just make sure you tell your therapist about not eating, alright?” A truce, if Malcolm will take it.

The call comes in before Gil can decide whether to force an answer out of him. Homicide. Focused on the sudden nervous energy from the passenger seat, Gil almost misses the address as dispatch rattles it off. “Bright.” he warns.

“Come on, Gil! I’m already in the car with you. It’s practically a sign.” No problem with movement now, Malcolm’s almost bouncing in his seat. While Gil’s glad the kid pulled himself back, murder should _not_ get anyone this excited.

“No, you are going to therapy. Then I’ll—”

“What? Double back and miss all the good stuff!” Malcolm quells a bit at Gil’s look. “You know what I mean.”

Gil sighs and switches into the turn lane, ignoring Malcolm’s whoop. “You know this might not be your kind of scene.”

“Murder is my scene!”

Gil sighs again. It’s becoming far too familiar. “One day, you are going to listen to the words coming out of your mouth and be as concerned as the rest of us.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

Malcolm is not happy about being told to stay in the car.

“This is like benching your best player!” He’s glaring at Gil, a waste really, because Gil’s enjoying the view.

Trees frame the long driveway in equally spaced rows, tended and pruned to precision. The trees, in return, fight against the man-made order with a riot of fall colors, reds and greens and yellows giving one last hurrah to natural chaos before falling down to be raked away into neat bins. “We _have_ solved cases before you.” Malcolm just scoffs. Gil pulls up in front of the mansion, a towering monument of brick and windows, and throws the car into park. “Are you implying you don’t think my team is capable?”

It’s funny how quick he pales. “No! No, that’s not—I wasn’t saying—Um… Please don’t tell Dani?”

“I won’t tell her,” Gil turns off the car and stares Malcolm down. “And you will stay here, in the car.” Like hell is he letting Malcolm poke around another body while he’s supposed to be at therapy.

“Of course. Yeah, definitely.” Malcolm nods at him, head bobbing like it doesn’t know how to stop.

“You know, Malcolm,” He puts one hand at the kid’s nape and squeezes a little; he goes limp like Jackie’s little kitten used to before it grew up and turned into a nasty tom. Reaching out behind him, Gil’s other hand searches the door pocket. There. “You’re still a terrible liar.” He clicks one end of the handcuffs onto Malcolm’s wrist and the other onto the steering wheel.

“What the hell!” Malcolm tugs at the handcuffs, metal jangling in indignation. “You can’t—” He looks Gil straight in the eye. “This is illegal.”

“So’s sneaking onto a crime scene, city boy.” Gil gets out of the car, stretches his back out with a pop.

“What if there’s an emergency?” Malcolm’s voice chases after him, challenging. Good. A loud Malcolm is not one he needs to be worried about.

“You have your phone.” Gil shuts the door, satisfied by the secure little thud.

“What if I need to use the bathroom?”

Gil ducks his head back through the window, smirks at the glare that meets him. “Hold it.”

“Gil? You can’t leave me here!” Bright’s voice cracks just the same as when he was a teenager, pissed off because Gil wouldn’t take him to confront a murder suspect.

“I left the windows open.” Gil calls over his shoulder. He heads towards the door and gives his keys a jaunty little swirl in his hand.

\--- --- --- --- ---

Gil surveys the grand foyer of the Hawthorne residence. Marble floors gleam back at him, immaculate and cold. Wood-paneled walls, carved and inlaid, form a frame around the harsh shine. Above them, an honest-to-god chandelier keeps a careful watch, its many crystal eyes glinting down in lofty suspicion. “No Bright?” Dani comes to stand at his shoulder, sharp and reliable.

“I left him in the car.” He follows her up around the curve of the grand marble staircase to where JT waits for them, solid and alert. When Gil first picked his team, there were some raised eyebrows. A hard talking girl from the Bronx just come back from an undercover op gone wrong, and a recently discharged soldier still adjusting to life stateside were hardly the top of the pile. But Gil can recognize the strength of a survivor, and with case after case solved, even the hardest sceptic had to admit that Gil knew what he was about.

“So, he should be in,” JT feigns glancing at his watch, “any minute now.” He hooks a thumb at one of the many arches branching away from the stairs. “Here, this way.”

Gil tries to reign in his smugness into something more appropriate for entering a crime scene, but Dani calls his bluff, as always. “What d’you do?”

“I cuffed him to the steering wheel.”

“Gil.” JT lets out a whistle, impressed. Not a small fete, to impress JT; even the golden sconces and the floor to ceiling windows they’ve passed inspire only a brief glance.

“I thought you aren’t supposed to leave pets unattended in cars.” It would be nasty coming from anyone else, but Dani’s voice tells of amusement, fondness even. They head down yet another hallway, and Gil catches his own smile bouncing off a window pane polished to a mirror finish; Bright’s already winning the team over.

“Alright, alright, enough.” He waves her off as they pass through an arch, leaving the hall for a gallery of some sort. “I thought you had today off?”

“Not till the afternoon.” She sounds distracted, a rare enough occurrence to have Gil on alert, until he sees her circling a portrait of… a man made of food? She leans towards it, screws her face up, leans back. “JT, are you sure this is right?”

“We’re almost there. Right through here.” With a purposeful stride, JT approaches an imposing wooden door, intricate patterns curving round its frame in a dizzying dance. He throws it open.

There’s no blood. There’s no corpse. There’s no crime scene. There is, however —

“JT.” Gil crosses his arms and looks through the doorway at dark green tile. “That’s a bathroom.”

JT peers in after him. “Damn rich people. This whole house looks the same.”

“I thought the room with all the naked statues was pretty different.” The sardonic reply comes from the wall opposite of where they stand crowded together in the doorway; Dani’s never been big on unnecessary contact, the odd fist bump or shoulder nudge excluded.

“There’s just too much house.” JT shuts the bathroom door with some prejudice.

Gil leans back, rubs a hand over his forehead. “We didn’t pass any statues, clothed or otherwise.”

“We may have gotten lost…” JT shifts, “The first time.”

“And probably now, too.” Dani mutters under her breath before the sound of footsteps echoing off the marble has them all turning.

“Oh, hello! Detectives!” Dr. Edrisa Tanaka greets them with surprised delight, an awkward wave, and what seems to be a half bow.

“Wonderful.” JT grumbles.

“Oh! I’m sorry.” Her hand flies to her mouth. “Is there a line? I can go… I should go.” With a jerky point over her shoulder, she begins her flight back the way she came.

Gil stops her with a hand to her arm. “You’re not lost?”

“No?” It sounds like a question, with all the confidence dripped out; but Dr. Tanaka is both competent and intelligent, and Gil won’t let a lack of social graces blind him to that fact.

He nods, firm and decisive. “I’ll follow you back to the crime scene.”

“But I need to—” She looks over their shoulders to the bathroom, then at their no-nonsense faces. “Okay, you’re right; I can do that later. This way!”

\--- --- --- --- ---

“This is sitting room C. And this,” Edrisa sticks her arms out in something attempting a tv show host gesture, “Is Samuel Hawthorne.”

Samuel Hawthorn is leaning against the shelves of an open linen closet, legs sprawled out in front of him into the sitting room proper. Dead.

Right away, the scene strikes Gil as odd. There’s a mess of blood down the man’s front, gathering around his waist in a tacky pool, with no blood smears or trails to indicate he’d been moved. But the stash of embroidered pillows behind him are still neatly on their shelves, no sign of a struggle. Gil doesn’t mention it; he prefers to see what his team picks up on their own first, it’s a simple way to give them some experience, without leaving them to flounder.

“Male, age fifty-eight, owner of this fine home.” JT starts in on the rundown. “Maid came by to get a towel and…” They all look at the body.

“Hell of a surprise. Found this morning?”

Dani nods. “We think the kill happened sometime last night.”

“Who was in the house?” Gil squats to take a closer look. Damn, that’s a lot of blood.

“Staff left at nine,” Dani replies quick, “According to them, Mr. Hawthorne was alive and well.”

“Family?”

“They’ve all been notified and should be coming in.” JT offers Gil a hand up, his back thanks him. “Son’s at school across the country, the daughter’s traveling in Spain, and the wife is out of town on weekend vacation.” JT raises his eyebrows.

“Sounds lonely. Cause of death the slit throat?”

“Yup!” Edrisa pops up from behind, always eager to share. “From the preliminary he doesn’t have another mark on him.”

“Well, at least that’s straightforward.” Gil really doesn’t want to have to fetch Bright.

“Well…” Edrisa crouches down by the body and examines the neat slice in the neck. “Maybe not. The cut is shallow enough that he would have bled out slowly.”

“And who sits in a closet waiting to bleed out.” Dani jumps on the thought and Gil gives a crisp nod. Once again, his team proved worthy of his trust in them.

“If there was a struggle, it was a quiet one,” JT says, “Nothing moved, nothing broken. Any sign of restraints?”

“No bruising on the wrists.” Edrisa stands up. “Hard to see with all the blood, but I’m guessing we’ll find some puncture wounds.”

“Drugs then?” Gil confirms.

“Seems like it, Boss!” Edrisa finishes with some kind of… oh dear lord, _finger-guns_. The last person to try those on Gil is currently handcuffed to his steering wheel. Bright, at least, had the excuse of coming off of three days with no sleep.

“There’s something else, Boss.” Dani leads him across the room to the tastefully painted mantle. It’s covered in family photos; a pretty brunette playing the violin, a group of adults raising their glasses from the deck of a small yacht, an all-American boy hiking or playing sports. A family portrait is displayed in the position of honor, Mr. and Mrs. Hawthorne posed and smiling with their children. It’s surprising, finding such a homey touch in all the formal ostentatiousness of the rest of the house. All very innocent… If you ignore the blood spread over every depiction of Mr. Samuel Hawthorne.

“Is this—”

“On every picture we’ve found.” Dani confirms.

“Has anyone checked—”

“Detective!” A forensic tech approaches Dani, but seeing Gil, she turns to address him. “Hart’s been looking at the other rooms.” She gestures at the blood-stained pictures, “They’re all like that.” 

Gil gets a sinking feeling in his stomach. “How many have you found?”

“Upwards of twenty-five now, Sir.”

“That takes time.” JT says.

“That takes effort.” Dani says.

“Aw damn.” Gil says. “I think it is his kind of scene.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts? I'm new here and would love to hear what you think!


	3. Lapse in Judgement

**JT**

Gil sends Edrisa to fetch Bright from his car. The way her eyes lit up when he handed her the handcuff key made JT glad he doesn’t have to watch _that_ interaction. He’s also glad he doesn’t have to find his way through this maze of a house again; with all their money, he’d think they could shell out for a map, at least. He’s decidedly, markedly, and increasingly _less_ glad when Bright comes in, all smug and well dressed and insufferable.

“Okay,” Bright snaps the gloves on his wrists and rubs his hands together. “Where’s this body? Oh! Never mind,” He lifts his finger, “I found it.”

JT wants to punch him; but, being a professional, he instead _does his job_ and starts reeling off the victim’s info. “Samuel Hawthorne, age—”

“Ah, thank you, Detective,” JT grinds his teeth as Bright cuts him off, “but Edrisa caught me up on the way in.”

“Anything for you!” Edrisa is tripping all over herself, fiddling with her glasses, and does JT _really_ need to watch this? Bright just smiles at her, warm and soft, no pride, no mocking, no selfishness to it. That warmth falls away in an instant, though, when he approaches the body. His eyes, his face, his body language all go sharp, fast enough to have JT shooting an uneasy glance to Dani. She meets it with a steady raise of her eyebrows; no help there, then.

Bright crouches near the body, silent for once as he looks it over, eyes flick, flick, flicking from one point to the next, analyzing and recording. What exactly he thinks he is going to find on the same body the rest of them have already examined, JT has no idea. Apparently satisfied, Bright leans back on his heels and looks up. “You said there were pictures?” Dani steps to the side and pulls JT with her so Bright can see the mantle. He jumps up, all delighted surprise, and walks over. “Ah, so, _this_ is why you changed your mind.” He’s looking at the pictures, but from Gil’s huff that was directed to him. Bright lifts one bloody frame, tilting it in the light, bringing it closer to his face and, good God, is he smelling it?

“Anything?” JT shifts his weight. Bright’s just standing there, a thoughtful expression on his face before he turns back to the body. Another moment of surprising stillness before he turns back to the mantle, squints a bit, then turns _back_ to the body again. JT leans over to Dani. “This is ridiculous.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Let him do his—” Bright’s now crouched by the corpse, with his back to the dead man, and _still_ looking at the damn mantle. “—thing.” She finishes, looking a bit perturbed. JT snorts.

Bright has another moment of intent staring, brows furrowed, before he’s up and addressing Gil. “If Edrisa is right about the drugs, we can assume the killer drugged him, brought him to the closet, then cut his throat.” Which, okay, but—

“How do you know the killer didn’t kill him, then hide the body in the closet?” Dani asks the same question he’d been thinking. JT gives her an approving nod. She’s a good partner.

“Because of the photos.” Bright seems to think that jump makes some sort of sense. JT glances surreptitiously at the others; nope, they seem as lost as he is.

Finally, Gil prompts. “And how did you get to that?”

“Oh! Well, if you look at the sightlines of the body, he can _see_ the mantle.” Bright’s gaze goes a little distant. “The killer left him to bleed out and to _watch,_ as he systematically removed him from his family.”

“You think the killer’s male?” Gil asks, which is _not_ the part of that JT is concerned with.

“Mr. Hawthorne’s a pretty big guy.” Bright points to where the corpse is almost filling the closet doorway. He’s not wrong; Mr. Hawthorne is heavy in the way rich people get from too much food and too little work.

“You don’t think a woman could do it?” JT crosses his arms and asks what he is _sure_ is Dani’s next question. The way she lightly raps the back of her hand against his shoulder confirms it.

“Well, they could!” Bright is quick to say. “But they would have to be strong. Noticeably, physically strong.” He gestures at the room as a whole, all the gold and crystal and fancy-ass rich people stuff. “You don’t get that in a place like this.” 

“Inside job makes sense.” Dani says. “No sign of forced entry.”

“Alright.” Gil starts, “Let’s—”

“Holy shit, is that Dad?”

They all turn towards the unfamiliar voice from the doorway. A college age kid stands just inside the room, awkwardly balanced half-in, half-out, like shock stopped him before he could decide which way to go. He’s blond, looks like a quarterback… looks like a certain blood covered photo.

“Sir, I’m detective Powell and you can’t be in here.” Dani starts firmly ushering him away as JT exchanges a look with Gil. Across the country indeed.

JT steps up when the kid starts to waver, placing a heavy hand on his arm to encourage him to the door. It’s not hard; from the kid’s pallor, he’s sliding towards shock, and he can’t be at the crime scene when he finally gets there. “Detective Tarmel. Why don’t we go sit down and—”

“Would you consider this a happy family?” Bright pipes up from behind and JT feels a shift in his stomach. It’s the same clench of foreboding he gets right before an undercover op is blown, or Bright gets near a gun, or (more likely) a gun gets near Bright.

“Excuse me?” The son is bristling now, muscles tightening as the slide into shock takes a sharp turn towards anger and JT lets himself slip into a ready stance.

“Your family photos.” Bright offers, stepping forward. “Father, Mother, Son and Daughter. Your smiles are stiff, uncomfortable—”

“It’s a posed photo, of course it’s stiff.” The kid turns to Dani, hard, and JT tightens his grip on the kid’s arm in warning. “Who the hell is this?”

Bright continues uninterrupted. “—His hand on your shoulder, the one in her hair; it’s possessive. It says _Mine_.”

“Bright.” Gil grabs at his arm, trying to interfere, but Bright (showing unexpected grace) dodges it with neat sidestep. He’s locked in on the kid now, reading every muscle twitch and hitch of his breath with a single-minded intensity that would put most cardsharps to shame. The kid’s getting antsy, not that JT can blame him; he’s getting uncomfortable himself, and he’s not the one with Bright’s attention drilling into their every movement. Bright steps closer, right up to the edge of their space, like he’s unaware of the tension building up like gas, a swirling storm just waiting for the spark to set it all off.

“Your Mom looks tired,” Bright says, all clear eyes and unwavering voice. “Tired and scared.”

JT’s hold is the only thing that saves Bright a broken nose when the kid throws himself forward, anger ripping through every line of him. Bright jerks back, stumbling, and Gil steadies him with a hand on his lower back. JT wrests the kid back under control, pulling him tight to his chest with an arm. He’s careful; the most important part of having strength is having the self-discipline to regulate it. The hold won’t hurt the kid, but he’s not getting another shot at Bright.

“I don’t know who the hell you are!” JT holds the kid steady as he twists, the racing panic of his heartbeat sounding out an uneven staccato under his arm. “Where the hell you get off on saying something so—” He cuts off abruptly, gaze locked onto the bloody scene in the closet. A shudder runs through him for a moment before he jerks, throwing himself against JT’s hold and back into his raging. “My father cared for his family the best he could and it’s none of your damn business what went on in this house so just—”

“Okay, okay, that’s enough.” Gil cuts in with all the authority of twenty-plus years on the force. The kid freezes against JT. “Bright,” Gil points to the farthest corner of the room. “Over there.” Bright opens his mouth. “Now.” Gil stares Bright down with the full expectation of being obeyed. After a final frown, he is.

The kid still hasn’t moved by the time Gil turns to them and lets his voice fall back to calm professional. “I’m detective Gil Arroyo, I’m very sorry for your loss, but this is an active crime scene and I need you to move away.”

JT feels the kid gasp out a breath and let the tension out of his muscles. Cautiously, JT loosens his hold. “Screw you all.” The kid rasps before shaking off his arm, which JT only allows because the kid is also turning and stalking off _out_ of the room.

Gil sighs, slumping a bit, and rubs a hand over his face. But when he turns toward JT, the professional mask has already clicked back into place. “Keep an eye on him.” He nods to where the kid stormed off. “See if you can repair any of the damage; get him to talk. I have to handle this.” He looks over at where Bright’s pacing in the corner with a mix of frustration and resigned fondness.

“Will do, Sir.” JT turns but stops when he feels a solid hand on his arm.

“And, JT.” Gil’s eyes seem to weigh him, trusting and testing in turns. “If Bright says there’s some kind of abuse in the home…” His eyes flick away over JT’s shoulder. “Malcolm’s seen a lot of things, and he’s damn good at his job.” Finally, Gil’s gaze settles back on Bright, and the assessing look settles into something horribly like respect and JT’s suddenly furious. That Gil would care so much for someone who scorns the rules and regulations, the very law his mentor has sworn to uphold. But JT’s a professional, and he knows the value of respect and command, so he only says, “I’ll keep it in mind, Sir.” and goes to do what he’s told.

\--- --- --- --- ---

JT follows the kid, only a few turns, and they’re somehow outside. He takes a moment to be impressed, because that was much shorter than the way he’d gotten there the first time… or the second. The kid fishes out a pack of cigarettes hidden in some fancy lawn thing and lights up, before resting back against the brick exterior of the house. JT snorts. Guess even rich kids are still just kids.

“Mind if I join you?” JT calls and the kid looks up but doesn’t push off the wall or make any move to hide his cigarette.

“Are you going to insinuate horrible things about my family?” He asks, which, fair.

JT walks over and leans against the wall next to him, close enough to talk, far enough to still breathe. “Seemed more like an accusation then anything.” He shakes his head. “Bright’s a piece of work, man.”

The kid takes a drag. “He’s always like that?”

“Worse.” JT stares straight ahead, out over the once immaculate lawn and drive, now cluttered with all sorts of unsightly vehicles that appear when a body drops. “On our first case, he chopped a dude’s hand off.”

The kid turns to him, like JT hoped he would. At least Bright’s craziness is good for something. “No way! You’re lying.”

“Honest truth!” He looks over and meets the kid’s eyes. “There was a bomb, and the guy was tied to a chair, and then that nutcase found an axe.”

“Wild, man.” He shakes his head, then, “Ennis Hawthorne.”

“JT Tarmel.”

“Want one?” He offers a cigarette.

“Nah, had to give em up after the army.” The kid—Ennis, is still holding out the box like some kind of test so JT gives him a nod. “You go ahead though.”

“I don’t usually smoke,” Ennis bursts out, like it matters, “Just,” he flicks the hand holding the cigarette out at the yard, “You know.”

“Settle your nerves.” JT understands the impulse. Ennis has settled down again, back against the wall. He still seems a bit unsteady, but JT doesn’t think the kid’s gonna come at him if he starts to dig a bit. “You holding up okay?”

“Yeah. I don’t,” Ennis takes a quick drag, “I don’t really feel anything. Shock, I guess. I came up to surprise my mom and then…” He breathes out, shaky. “I didn’t even know he was dead until…” Another hitching breath, “Damn.” He looks down at the ground.

“You didn’t see the cops in the front?” JT tries to catch his eye. Ennis keeps his head down but eventually shakes it.

“Came in the back. That’s my mom’s favorite sitting room, she’d always go there when the house got stressed.” Ennis looks up at JT, eyes wide and suddenly _young_ , “Not stressed like, what that guy was saying! Just, you know, stressed.”

“Nah, I get it, man.” JT keeps his voice casual and looks back over the lawn. “You should see my wife when I forget to get the dry cleaning. I could use a sitting room to hide out in.”

“Exactly!” Out of the corner of his eye, JT can see the kid relax, “Normal stuff, that’s all.” Ennis stubs his cigarette off on the wall. “Ah, man. There’s my mom, I gotta...”

“Nah, go ahead, man.” JT waves him off, “Sorry about your dad.”

“Yeah. Yeah.” Ennis nods, trailing off, focused on the car that’s just pulled up. JT watches as a blonde woman gets out and gestures around, obviously shaken. Ennis talks to her a moment, one pale, delicate hand flies over her mouth, then Ennis has her pulled in tight, rocking her as she clings to him. JT makes himself look away, giving them the only bit of privacy they are likely to get over the course of the next few days.

The brick catches against his jacket as he leans back against the wall, staring up at a crisp, cloudless sky. The breeze blows away the scent of secondhand smoke as JT stews in the fact that Bright may be right; there’s something off about this family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone seen the new trailer for season 2? Psycho roller coaster... adorable


	4. Sister to Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not gonna lie, this chapter almost didn't happen due to a chronic flare up the size of Mt. Doom. But stubbornness won out in the end, so here it is! Thanks to everyone who's left kudos and comments...you guys keep me going!

**DANI**

Dani’s heard this lecture a hundred times. She’s gotten it, JT’s gotten it, and so has anyone who risks one of Gil’s cases by acting recklessly. JT is the one who figured out how to best handle it; he leaned back on his military past, all ‘Yes, Sir’ ‘No, Sir’, until Gil ran out of steam. Dani may have a bit of a temper, but she quickly learned to bite her tongue when Gil starts this speech. The only way out is through. That lesson was hard earned, so she can’t help but wince a bit when Bright starts actively _arguing_ with Gil.

“I’m telling you there’s something going on with this family.” Bright insists, for not the first time. His stance changed, once Gil started in on him, the intent focus from before escalating into an almost manic state. He’s twitchy and fidgeting, and he keeps coming back at Gil with facts and arguments and counterarguments like he needs to prove something.

“Other than the dead body?” Gil crosses his arms, face hard and so very still compared to Bright’s restlessness. “You can’t go after a potential suspect like that; he might not even talk to us now.”

“But I’m _right_!” She’s close enough to them that when Bright’s hand starts shaking at his side, she notices. Gil must notice too, because his expression loosens its grip on solid sternness.

“I never said you weren’t, kid,” Gil puts his hand up in a gentle grab to the nape of Bright’s neck and the incessant fidgeting stills in a rush of relieved air. “But I need you to follow my lead.”

There’s a beat, then, “Okay.” Bright says, open and trusting, the live-wire tension falling right out of him. Dani can’t help but wonder at their relationship. When Bright messes up, Gil lectures him, sure, but then he assures him, steadies him. Casting the pair another look, Dani frowns; Bright seems to need a lot of steadying. Dani’s tried the whole broken pretty boy thing before, it did _not_ work out; but that’s part of Gil’s skill: where others see only damage, he sees potential, and lucky for him, Bright seems to have that in spades.

“Good. Ah, wait.” Gil pats at his pocket, “What time is it? We gotta get you to your appointment.”

“Oh, I already canceled that when I was in the car.”

“Malcolm!”

“The only other opening was in like twenty minutes, and you won’t be done by then, so…”

Maybe it’s the way Bright profiled the case, sliding right into the mind of their killer; or the way he thinks he can go toe to toe with Gil when the man’s gotten a lecture going; or maybe it’s just the fact her reliable boss slipped right from ‘Bright’ to ‘Malcolm’ in a moment reeking of fond, frustrated, worry; but... “You need a ride?” Dani finds herself offering.

“Um…” Bright looks over at her, surprised, like offering a coworker a ride isn’t a completely normal and common thing to do. Who knows? Maybe in his world, it isn’t. “Yes, yes, I do.”

“You don’t mind?” Gil’s not surprised the way Bright is, but there’s something testing in his voice all the same.

“I’m supposed to have the rest of the day off.” She shrugs a shoulder. “I can take him on my way to lunch.”

“Thanks Dani… Detective Powell. Er.” Bright swallows hard, flushing, then snaps his fingers and points at Gil. “I need your keys.”

“Why?”

“I left something in the back.”

“Fine.” Gil tosses the keys over. “Get it and be quick.” Bright fires off a salute and rushes out the door. Gil shakes his head and addresses Dani, brow furrowed. “You’re sure you don’t mind taking him?”

“No.” She grins. “Never hurts to do a favor for the boss.”

Gil chuckles, and the feeling of being tested fades away. “No, it doesn’t.” He sobers, sharp eyes scanning back over the scene. “What do you think of the son?”

Dani goes to speak, then hesitates, considering her words. “I think there were some weird reactions. Could be shock, but considering he wasn’t supposed to be in town, and the fact he showed up at the crime scene… I’d keep an eye on him.”

“My thoughts too. Bright didn’t give us much in terms of motive, but I’d like to look at the financials. Rich guy like this… money can make people do horrible things.”

He’s not wrong, they’d seen enough blood spread for the sake of a few dollars but… “Do you think Bright’s right, about the abuse?”

“I think we should look into it.” He meets her gaze, clear and steady as the horizon on the sea. “What do you think?”

_I think Bright’s not entirely stable._ He might not be wrong about the case, but every time Dani sees him, he seems more and more unsteady. It’s not that Dani has anything against Bright, quite the opposite; unlike JT, where it was pissed off at first sight. Bright seems like a good guy, caring, smart, and even charming in a quirky way. But things aren’t always what they seem; and Dani knows that trauma can make a person act irrationally. She’s trying to figure out a way to say all that (or at least some of it) to her boss without insulting his surrogate son, when the man himself walks back in.

“Good to go?” Gil asks them both.

Dani nods.

Bright grins. “Let’s go get therapy.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

“Don’t touch that, Bright.”

Bright freezes and slowly moves his hand away from her air freshener. Giving Bright a ride is like transporting a well-dressed puppy; playing with the window, looking all around, _touching everything_. Dani suspects Gil knew this and is getting her back for the ‘pets in cars’ comment. Bright fidgets for a few more minutes before asking, “So, lunch. With anyone special?”

Dani glances at him, takes in the way he’s looking at her from under his eyelashes, an effort to obscure just how alert and intent that gaze can be. She knows whatever she says next will click into his little mental picture of her, another piece to the puzzle of ‘Dani’, and she’s left debating whether she wants to open the door to personal questions. “My little sister is pretty special.”

“Ah.” He nods, his attempt at passing for casual overridden by that same still focus from the crime scene. “What’s she like?”

“Really, Bright?”

“Just making conversation.” Hands up in the universal sign of ‘don’t shoot’, Bright smiles over at her. Dani rolls her eyes, but it’s an empty gesture, and Bright knows it, can’t _not_ know it with the way he reads people. He leans back in his seat, voice sliding a hairsbreadth away from teasing. “I bet she’s sweet. She thinks her sister is absolutely the coolest, being a cop in NYC.” Dani snorts. Just last week, Carly spent their whole call making cop-donut references. Bright will have to do better than that.

“She would never say it though,” he adds, and Dani allows a hint of a smile, knowing Bright will pick it up. Pretty good guess, considering he found out she has a sister all of a minute ago. But before she can give a sarcastic ‘way to go, Sherlock’, Bright continues, voice unchanged from the casual tone he used earlier. “She prefers making fun of you to hide how scared she is that something will happen.”

Dani’s smile drops. Bright keeps going, staring out the window. Or maybe at the window, he doesn’t seem to be registering anything outside. “You know that, but you don’t like it because _you_ should be the one worried about her. Watching her to make sure she’s safe, because she wasn’t always, and you have to be there because you weren’t, and she’s hurt and it’s all your fau—”

“Bright!” Dani feels flayed.

Bright jerks, hard. “I—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

“No.” Dani yanks herself together, pulls back every spilling memory of the blood and the hospital and ‘ _oh God, why wasn’t I there?’_ and shoves it all back down to her core; lets it strengthen her words and her spine and her heart until her voice comes out as rigid as her posture. “No, you shouldn’t of.” A pause, a breath; she flexes her hands against the steering wheel, letting off some pressure towards fight or flight with each shift of her fingers.

“I’m really sorry.” Bright sounds… small; nothing like the confident profiler who throws himself into danger or combats assumptions around the station with razor sharp wit. She doesn’t respond, not interested in apologies while her mind’s still spinning back to the worst two months of her life. Bright tries anyway. “I haven’t been sleeping well and I haven’t quite… switched off from the crime scene.” She can feel his eyes on her, probably as imploring as his voice. She doesn’t check, keeping her gaze on the road and her focus on breathing slow and steady like JT taught her, and he deflates. “Damn it.” He mutters, “And this is why I’m going to therapy.”

He falls quiet after that, and Dani lets the silence sit, weighted and stifling, before eyeing Bright in the mirror. He’s hunched over a bit, head bowed, energy muted like he’s forcing it down, forcing _himself_ down, into something small and harmless. As she watches, his tremor starts up. He grabs his wrist and forces it still with a grip tight enough to bruise.

Dani sighs, “You know you remind me of my sister.”

Bright’s head stays down, but his eyes shoot up, she can see the flash of them under his hair. “Really?”

“Yeah. Not with,” She shakes her head, “Whatever the hell that was. But—” She avoids his gaze, thinks of the way Carly still curls up when she’s nervous, making herself a smaller target; and with another glance at Bright doing the same thing, Dani takes a leap of faith. “She was hurt. Has night terrors now. That’s how I knew how to handle it when—”

“I had mine at the station.”

Dani presses her lips together and nods. “Look, Bright, that whole… that’s not okay. _I’m_ not okay with that. And JT won’t be either. Being part of a team, you have to trust each other. For you, that means trusting we won’t let you get shot; for us, it’s trusting you won’t try to rip our heads open.” Bright winces, and Dani lets the rest of the tension coiling through her body go. “Look, it’s not that I don’t have sympathy for you, I do, but—”

“Keep the profiling for the criminals?” He smiles, sheepish and hesitant, but looking less like he’s waiting for Dani to hit him.

“Exactly.” Dani says, then “What?”, because Bright looks like he’s gonna burst.

“Ah, could we not tell Gil?”

“What, that you were profiling your coworker?”

“Yes? He’s already given me conditions if I want to keep working,” Bright throws his arms up, “which is ridiculous, he knows how good I am at my job.”

Privately, Dani thinks any conditions Gil has are absolutely necessary considering how much mortal peril Bright seems to get in on the job. If Gil’s protective instincts kicked in half as hard as hers did after, say, Bright got blown up, or bit by a deadly snake, or almost injected himself with a cocktail of drugs? Well, honestly, she’s just surprised Gil hasn’t locked Bright in his room. “He’s worried about you.”

Bright scoffs, “He’ll be a lot more worried if he sees how I get without a case.” And that’s… worrying. Bright must pick up on her thoughts because he quickly covers. “I just like to stay busy, keep being useful. I don’t want to disappoint him.” The last part is directed to the middle distance, and Dani’s unsure if they’re still talking about Gil at all.

“Bright—”

“Well!” Bright’s sudden energy gives her whiplash. “I think that’s a discussion for me and my therapist, and, speaking thereof,” He raps a knuckle on the window. “We are here. Thank you,” He twists around, gathering up his things, “So much for the ride.” Suddenly he’s smiling at her, full on and brilliant enough to leave her blinking, and in that moment she thinks she understands why Gil’s willing to bend over backward to protect the guy. “Enjoy your lunch.”

“See you around, Bright.” Dani says to no one, because Bright’s already left.


	5. Support Structure

**MALCOLM**

“Hello.” Malcolm hesitates in the doorway.

“Malcolm.” Gabrielle looks up from her papers and smiles. “I see you’ve finally made an appointment.” It’s a gentle, fond admonishment. Teasing. Malcolm relaxes and steps fully into the office. It’s the same as he remembers; soft honey yellow walls, a few toys placed in easy reach of tiny hands, bookshelves filled with classic children’s stories. He’s read them all at some point, from novels that immersed him from the first few pages to the soothing pastels of the picture books. His mother didn’t pay for him to read straight through his appointments, but he was eleven and scared, and reading was much preferable to talking when his mouth felt wired shut, full and aching with the same shocked static silence reverberating in his brain.

“You can thank Gil for that.”

“Have a seat.” She offers, and he sinks into the armchair across from her. It’s the same routine that starts all their sessions, and he gets the urge to tuck his legs up under him, defensive and small. He fights it off. It’s not like during his first few months of appointments when everything was raw and horror studded and looming over him, heavy and stifling till he just wanted to curl up and disappear. He’s not a _child_ anymore. She gives him a smile, soft, like she knows what he’s thinking, like she wouldn’t mind if he indulged in the familiar comfort. He pointedly keeps his legs crossed in front of him. “You look better than when I saw you last.”

Malcolm winces, remembering shattered glass and a bloody hand. “Yes, well, I need to be in tip-top shape for Gil to keep me on for cases. So,” He shifts in his seat. “Whatever we have to talk about to keep my mind functional.”

“Last time we spoke, you were having difficulties with your mother.” There’s still no judgement in her voice, which is impressive considering how completely and totally out of line he had been then.

“Oh, I talked to her. Turns out she’s up to nothing more questionable than her habit to show up unexpectedly at my apartment. She really cares about us, under all the…” He waves a hand about, “Jessica.”

“That’s good, Malcolm!” She smiles. When he saw her as a kid, shaken and traumatized and re-traumatized again by all the adults (the ‘specialists’ whispering words like _involved, faking, crazy, dangerous)_ her smiles were the first that felt real. Sunshine, they felt like sunshine; real and warm and bright enough to _hurt_. Now that he’s an adult, nothing much has changed. “I’m glad that you were able to speak with her and resolve the questions you had. Have you considered trying to establish some personal boundaries with her?” 

“Have you met my mother?” It’s harsh, and Malcolm lets out a breath, trying to soften it. “Besides, I doubt talking about my _mother_ is going to get me any closer to solving cases.”

“I see you feel urgency to get back to your job.” She says, which is true; of course he does.

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” He offers.

“Is it.” Her face stays blank in the way that Malcolm knows means he messed up. “I was under the impression you are here to improve your mental state.”

He shifts, like it’s the _chair_ that’s uncomfortable. “Yes, so I can work.”

Gabrielle tilts her head to the side. “What would you do if you didn’t have your work?”

He blinks hard at her. “Like if I finally lost it?”

She smiles, bemused. “Or if there were no more murders to solve.”

“There will always be more murders, the human mind—”

“Malcolm. You’re deflecting.”

_I see you haven’t lost your tendency towards deflection._

“So, what if I am?” Malcolm bites back, as hard and harsh as he wished he could have been this morning. “It’s a useless question because it’s not going to happen.” He pushes back into his seat, eyes skipping from the tasteful paintings, to the stuffed lion staring at him from the couch, then settling on glaring at the potted plant over Gabrielle’s left shoulder. He tries to suppress the tremor starting up in his hand.

“You never intend to stop?”

“I can’t stop!” He grabs his stupid, shaking hand and _sits_ on it. “It’s the only thing I’m good at. I have to contribute _something_. It’s who I am.”

Gabrielle doesn’t say anything for a long moment. Malcolm feels like shaking out of his _skin_. “Malcolm, you see your identity as tied to what you contribute.” She leans forward, intent, the way she does when she’s trying to tell him some truth he’s going to have a hard time believing. “Your family and friends don’t stay because you make yourself useful to them. They stay because they love you.”

“No, that’s not—In my experience it’s…” Malcolm fumbles for a moment, a red slash of a grin appearing in his mind’s eye. “To not be useful is to be useless, and useless things get—” He cuts off.

“Malcolm? What happens to useless things?” She presses. Always pressing, always pushing, always trying to make him _break_. He was getting better, why did no one see—Stupid smart eyes prying into his memories, his thoughts, how much he eats for goddamn _breakfast_.

He sits straight up in his seat. “I think I’m done for today.”

“You haven’t finished—”

“I brought you replacements.” Malcolm grabs for the plastic bag at his feet. It tangles, but he manages to pull out the bag of lollypops, and shoves them on the side table, tossing them on his seat instead when they start to fall. “Since I took half the container last time.” Or was it the time before? He can’t remember. Everything’s so—He heads toward the door.

“Malcolm, we both know those words were not yours.” The words stop him cold, freezing his legs, his chest, and this time there’s no sunshine smile to relieve them. “You’re distressed, I know, but you will have to face this.” For a moment he considers it; sitting back down, letting her talk him through the memory and the shakes and the learned behaviors. Letting her rip open his head till he’s shaking and crying and so very small and right back squished down in the—The moment passes like lightning, brief and burning, leaving him blinking the aftereffects out of his eyes.

“Thank you for your time.” Malcolm’s out the door and halfway down the block before he stops, staring down at a crack in the pavement. He has no plans, no ride, and no memory of leaving the office. Somehow he manages to fumble his phone out of his pocket and get an Uber. He’s drifting in the back seat in a kind of haze. The world is still there, still moving, only it’s _not_ , or maybe it is, and it’s only him that’s lost in existence. Time passes, presumably, till he’s almost back to his apartment, when the sound of his phone jolts him back to awareness. He almost throws it out the window in a defensive reflex before recognizing Ainsley’s name. Ainsley; his little sister, not… someone else. He answers before his thoughts can get worked up again.

“Hey, Ains.”

“Malcolm, finally! _Apparently_ , we’re having family dinner at Mom’s house.” Her voice is exasperated and fond and annoyed and so very warm. He trips a bit, pulling himself back to reality, back to where his little sister is waiting for him to say something normal, because Ainsley thinks _he’s_ normal. 

“And she didn’t invite me herself because?”

“You weren’t at your apartment.” He is now. Although, that means—

“ _She_ was at my apartment.” Malcolm unlocks his door and heads upstairs, praying she’s not still there.

“I swear she’s convinced if she doesn’t check on you every other day you’ll stop breathing or something.” He peers into his living room. No Jessica. He glances in the bedroom and hopes Ainsley drops the subject before she realizes _why_ Mother is so overprotective of him. Ainsley interrupts his surveillance, “Where were you?”

“Therapy.” His answer stops her in her tracks, like he knew it would.

“Right.” She pauses, awkwardly, long enough for him to debate checking the bathroom, before she rallies. “Well, dinner’s at eight and you better not make me suffer through it alone. Besides, I need to talk to you both about something.”

He opens a cabinet, top left, and counts his alcohol. “Does it have anything to do with a certain Jin, perhaps?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” She protests.

“Of course not. The way you glance _behind_ the camera is all just part of the reporter persona.” Everything looks the same as he remembers it. Maybe his mother wasn’t here after all.

“Malcolm!” Ainsley shrieks. He moves the phone away from his ear with a grin, “I can’t believe you—” She stops. “You watch my reports?”

“When I’m not on cases, yeah.”

“Oh.” She sounds more surprised than Malcolm expects. “Well—I’ll see you at dinner, okay?”

“Alright. Bye Ains.”

“Love you!” She hangs up, which is good because the string of curses he lets out when he sees his bed would have made Ainsley ask questions; and he would never live down the embarrassment of having his suit laid out, shoes, socks, and all, as if he was still five and incapable of choosing matching clothes.

Establish personal boundaries indeed.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

Malcolm wears the suit. He’d debated wearing something else, but eventually decided his petty rebellion would not be worth Mother’s ensuing hysterics. So, washed and dressed, he arrives at the Whitly family home at precisely 7:57; timing carefully planned to allow him to get his coat off, greet the staff, and brace himself before entering the dining hall. With Ainsley’s habit of arriving at least five minutes late (much to their mother’s annoyance), Malcolm can answer the majority of his Mother’s overbearing questions about his mental state before his sister even arrives, successfully keeping up the (somewhat) healthy older brother facade. But when he opens the dining hall doors, Ainsley is already there and seated.

He stares at her wide eyed. “Did I confuse the time?”

“Malcolm, my dear!” Mother is as poised as ever, despite the more than half-empty wineglass. “Come, take a seat. I see you found the suit I laid out for you.” Ainsley snorts at that, and Malcolm subtly kicks at her chair as he passes to the head of the table to kiss his mother’s cheek.

“Yes, thank you, Mother. You are as involved as ever.”

“Of course.” Mother gives an airy wave of her hand, but her smile stays sharp. “Where would you be without me?”

“I’m sure I’d be fine.” Malcolm settles in his seat to her right.

Mother sniffs, “Considering I own your apartment and paid for your college, I have reason to doubt that.”

“I appreciate the vote of confidence.” He says tightly. He turns to his sister. “And how has the perfect child been?”

Ainsley rolls her eyes at him but brightens none the less. “Good. I’ve had some interesting opportunities come up during work. Which, if you’d ever like to share any info regarding that murder this morning…” She trails off hopefully.

“Oh, please!” Mother cuts off his answer, “Is it too much to ask to have one dinner without discussing homicide.” She sips her wine. “I swear you’re worse than Uncle Ernest.”

Ainsley and Malcolm both wince. Uncle Ernest was famous for bringing up whatever medical issue he was currently suffering from just as soon as dinner had been served.

“Well then,” Malcolm raises his glass, “To a completely non-homicidal family dinner.”

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

Dinner passes much the same as Malcolm expected; Ainsley tries to get details on his case, completely unsubtly, the way she wouldn’t if she was actually trying to manipulate him, so Malcolm relaxes and enjoys the verbal banter. Mother drinks every time the conversation veers too close to murder, which, considering both their jobs, leaves her well on her way to inebriated. Malcolm eats and talks and very intentionally never looks at the opposite head of the table. For all of Mother’s redecoration, some memories are sunk into the very bones of the house.

“Well, that was absolutely delightful.” Mother places her napkin on the table. “Jacqueline has really outdone herself.”

“I’m sure you have her terrified of doing anything less.” Ainsley teases, but then frowns as her phone starts to ring. “I have to take this.” She pulls it out and Mother frowns.

“Answering phone calls at dinner? Next thing you’ll be rooting through garbage.”

Ainsley’s already standing. “Your napkin is on the table so, technically, dinner is over.” She shoots them a bright grin before putting her phone to her ear and striding off, the sharp click of her heels echoing off the wooden floors.

“That girl, I swear.” Mother gives a soft shake of her head, setting her hair a fluttering. “It’s all work all the time.” She lifts her glass and eyes him over the rim of it. “Reminds me of someone else.”

Malcolm laughs and puts his hands up. “Mother, I’m not having the work discussion with you; not after we’ve made it through an entire family dinner with only a minimum of drama.”

“But what is life without a bit of drama?” She grins at him, for real this time, with the thread of mischievousness that comes out when she’s tipsy.

“Gil would say happy.” Malcolm stands and dutifully escorts her to the sitting room across the hall.

“Ah, that man.” Mother starts aiming for the liquor cabinet, so Malcolm tries to steer her towards the chaise instead. She waves her free hand in the air. “He wouldn’t recognize fun if it bit him in the—”

“Mother!” Malcolm drops her arm in shock.

“What, Malcolm?” She looks completely innocent, but then ruins that image by immediately going to mix herself a drink. “Sit tight and I’ll make some tea up for you.”

“No, thank you.” Malcolm settles into one of the criminally comfortable chairs. “One parent drugging me is more than enough.”

“Dad drugged you?” Ainsley stands in the doorway. Of course, she had to hear that.

“It’s nothing.” Malcolm’s smile feels stretched. “Just a bad joke. You said earlier you had something you wanted to tell us?”

“Ainsley Marie! You didn’t tell me you had news!” Malcolm silently, for the first time ever, thanks the heavens for his Mother’s obsessive focus on her children’s lives.

Ainsley comes into the room and stands before the fireplace, turned towards them like she’s about to give a briefing or argue a case. Serious expression pasted over the stubborn set of her chin (she knows this will be a fight), Ainsley waits for their full attention. Malcolm watches her eyes gleam with barely suppressed excitement, and his stomach drops. “I need to do an interview with Dad.”

“You what.” Mother’s voice is the kind of flat that happens when something has jarred her right out of her socialite mask, but Malcolm doesn’t turn to her. He’s too busy staring horrified at his sister. He wants to yell at her, argue every reason why she needs to stay away, stay safe, but the words have dried up.

“Hear me out,” Ainsley starts, “there’s a friend of Bev’s, he’s a fan of my work and wants to produce something of mine and I was thinking—”

“You’d skip straight to interviewing the Surgeon?” Mother’s voice is shrill.

“No,” Ainsley gives her a look like she’s being ridiculous, “Not the Surgeon; Dad. I have a chance at a unique perspective—”

“Absolutely not. I forbid it.” Mother’s fingers tighten around the neck of her wine bottle.

“Well,” Ainsley smiles, bright and fake, and Malcolm waits for whatever horrible thing is going to come out of her mouth. “You can’t actually do anything to stop me. You might still boss Malcolm around like he’s a child but—”

“Oh, please, finish that sentence.” Malcolm cuts in, annoyance finally freeing his mouth. He keeps his hand tucked in tight between him and the armrest where neither Mom nor Ainsley will see the tremor.

“Mal,” Ainsley shoots him a look, “She laid out your suit.”

“How else am I supposed to show that I care?” Mother throws her hands up.

“Maybe,” Ainsley’s voice is false-bright and biting, “by supporting your children’s careers for a start!”

“Ainsley Marie!” Mother exclaims.

Ainsley looks at Malcolm. “And that’s twice now, with the middle name.”

“I have done nothing but support—”

“No, Mom,” Malcolm cuts in again, “Ainsley has a point.”

“See!” She looks at Mother and gestures back to her brother. “Malcolm understands.”

“Not why you would willingly go see him.” Malcolm corrects.

“Oh, you’re one to talk!” She whirls back. “Had any phone calls recently?”

“This isn’t about me.”

“You’re right, for once it isn’t!”

“What do you mean ‘for once’?”

Ainsley starts pacing. “It’s always ‘Malcolm this, Malcolm that. So angsty and fragile!’”

“Oh, so that’s what you think? Go ahead, tell us all—”

“Enough!” The sound of glass shattering breaks them apart. Jessica stands in front of the sideboard, the wine bottle broken at her feet. “Ainsley; stay away from Martin Whitly. I won’t have him ruining you the way he has me and your brother.” She raises a hand to stall Malcolm’s protest. “Not another word on it. Or so help me, I will bill you for the wine.” She looks sorrowfully at the stain, “Imported too.” and sweeps from the room.

They both go silent in the wake of her absence. The room does not. The dull tick of the grandfather clock rings a steady pulse over the fire’s crackle, studded with the sporadic pop of air escaping dried wood. “Well, that went well.” Ainsley sighs, grabs up Mother’s abandoned glass and drains it like a shot.

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know; some support?” She sounds frustrated, but her voice no longer carries that biting edge. “This could really help my career.”

“Ainsley…” He shifts in his seat, turns toward her. “My connection to Dr. Whitly lost me my last job; the damage he did to me might lose me this one.” He waves her off before she starts asking questions. “He’ll get in your head and… It’s not worth it.” 

“It’s not just the career.” She confesses. “This has been hanging over me my whole life and it’s not even something I remember.” She steadies herself, steel in her eyes. “I deserve a chance to find out what it means for _me_.” Her eyes meet his, imploring. “You understand; don’t you, Malcolm?”

“This isn’t going to give you what you want.” He tries, even as he knows it’s futile.

She smiles. “I still need to find that out for myself.”

And that’s what he’s afraid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone's Thanksgiving dinner was less stressful than this one!


	6. Weird Ways

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who’s here for more Malcolm trauma?  
> So… content warning for that: Lots of blood depictions and mild body horror. Think Will’s hallucinations in Hannibal: Horrifying, yet pretty, aesthetic to the nines…less kinky though, sorry guys

**MALCOLM**

“Daddy!” Malcolm scrambles down the stairs, all _one step_ , _two step_ , _skip step_ , _jump_ ; and hurls himself into the leg of his Dad’s neatly pressed pants. He hears a startled laugh above him as his Dad gives a little shake to scoot him away. Malcolm curls small hands tighter into the fabric, undoubtedly rumpling the crisp creases, and buries his face into the clean linen.

“Malcolm, what’s this?” Malcolm looks up at the smile in his Dad’s voice and wishes he hadn’t. The foyer of their home is distorting; colors dripping and swirling, then laser focused again, in and out, stretched then sharp; a room gone carnival mirror. The heavy wall clock swells out toward them like some great, golden bubble, numbers unreadable and strange. There’s a painting of his Mom as a little girl next to it. It sinks and swirls, canvas folding up tighter and smaller until she’s gone completely.

There’s a pull here, the type of full body, full spirit _tug_ Malcolm can only compare to standing at the edge of Niagara Falls, a family trip turned suddenly terrifying and mesmerizing. The walls bleed up and up like some perverse, reverse waterfall stretching into infinity, colors blurring out and mixing with the dark sky. Malcolm makes a grasp for something to hold on to, an anchor amongst the dizzying heights, and finds his Dad’s gentle face. “Do you have to go?” Malcolm tries, “You promised to read more tonight, Edmond hasn’t even escaped yet!”

“Ah.” Dad crouches down, grabs his shoulder firm and strong, just like he did on that long-ago family trip when Malcolm stood overwhelmed by the pull of the water. “Now I want you to listen to me, Malcolm. Listen and remember.” He will. He has no choice. The way his Dad’s eyes seem to glow with intensity is burning the moment into his mind. “Your old man has something special, the rare mix of both opportunity and the skill necessary to save someone’s life. If I choose not to save her because I was, say, reading to my favorite boy, well…” He reaches out to ruffle Malcolm’s hair and Malcolm doesn’t flinch, “It would almost be my fault.” The dizzying swelling seems to pause then, a single breath of stillness where the colors are back and there’s a floor and a ceiling and everything is so very real.

“But you didn’t hurt her?” Malcolm says, but it comes out a question. And the room is spinning again, surging and swelling and rushing and drowning.

“Well,” Dad furrows his brow and stands, but his mouth stays ever smiling, a constant in the whirling world. Malcolm looks up at that steady red slash and feels dread seep down to his toes. “She’s still dead.”

And even as Malcolm stands, now eye to eye with his father, he can see her, pale and spectral. Her face is unrecognizable, features twisted by a twisted mind. Malcolm’s not a child anymore, and yet he shakes to look at her. He wishes for one horrid, brutal second that she’d just _go away;_ and then _it’s_ there.

Malcolm stares at the box and the box stares back, freezing him like a basilisk’s gaze. The girl sees it, and she _dies_ , her life falling out of her in a tumble, drifting up to join the deep dark sky. Her body stays balanced for one electric, heartless moment, before it crumples, her body falling into the box and out of sight.

But that’s not right, the box is for alive things, the not-yet-dead things.

“Give me your hand, son.” And the glint in his father’s eyes matches the glint of the knife as he cuts Malcolm’s hand open,

Slowly,

Surgically.

And the box watches as Malcolm reaches out and rubs the red blood (drip, drip, dripping down) over his father’s face.

“Malcolm?” His father looks confused, but pleasant, showing no sign of pain as the blood corrodes his features; he smiles even as his lips drip down, revealing his teeth. The expected horror doesn’t come, just calm apathy as Malcolm presses his wound to his father’s face. His hand doesn’t shake once.

(There’s so much blood.)

And the blood drips and covers and the face melts away, (drip, drip, dripping down) till it lands with a splat on the floor of the old Claremont cell. The blood surges around their feet, pressing against the bars but never escaping beyond; melting and corroding and rising red until Malcolm is alone.

Alone in the cell with the box.

The horror comes then, a blow of frozen terror that throws him into the bars, then frantically around the cell as the blood continues to rise around him, warm and sticky and not his choice, not this time; he’s bleeding out. His hand trembles and sends shakes up his arm, to his chest, till it’s not one part of his body shaking, just _him_. The shaking turns to thrashing, the blood’s up to his chest now, and _he needs out_. The door’s right there, but it won’t open no matter how hard he throws his weight into it. He reaches out through the bars, _just a little farther;_ glimpses a shadow above him, and…

The box drops from above, crushing him, forcing him down and small and dark and into the blood. Malcolm tries to scream, but the blood’s waiting and rushing in, sickly sweet and drowning him. Choking and crying and—

(Gasping)

—awake, Malcolm pulls his hands away from where he’d been clawing at his neck. With a movement that feels more like a retch, he spits out the mouth guard, hearing it land and go skittering across the floor. He fumbles with his restraints, tossing them to the side and wishes the phantom taste of blood could be dealt with as easily. It tastes wrong; the expected copper scent undercut by this strange, cloying sweetness. Well, it’s not like the rest of his dream cared much for the realistic approach. He dismisses it.

It’s not until he’s washing his face that he realizes his mistake. He reaches for a hand towel and scrubs it over his face and— _Hey-Hey there’s something in-sweet-dark-tight-Dad, No!_ —

The towel hits the sink, lingers, and falls off to thud against the tile. He doesn’t pick it up. He doesn’t meet his eyes in the mirror. He just breathes, quiet and slow, while his brain clicks together, connected neurons firing and linking and _insisting_ on showing him the connections he missed. Blood that smells like chloroform, bits of half-forgotten conversations from his childhood, the _box_. The rush fades out, his head left heavy and clouded with a gray, distancing fog.

The rest of his morning routine passes in a blur.

_Today I release negative and toxic relationships. I’m cleansing from the inside out and I will protect my space._ As if in mockery, his phone rings; the very much known _Unknown_ number flashing across the screen. Just the thought of hearing his father’s voice has him gagging over the sink on the taste of copper, still twisted with that chloroform sweetness. He declines the call.

Making breakfast is a chore, but Gil can always tell when he’s lying. So, Malcolm tries his best, ignores the hand tremor, and then nearly cuts his hand off when his phone buzzes again. The call’s gone to voicemail by the time he resurfaces from his daze; Blood already welling up, he stares at it (drip, drip, dripping down) and goes for the first-aid kit.

At least the day can only go up.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

“Well, if it isn’t detective Arroyo’s little pet genius.”

Malcolm smiles, tight and forced, at the familiar mocking voice of Detective Reese Falkner, inwardly seething as he navigates through the now tittering bullpen to Gil’s office.

Malcolm isn’t a genius. He is smart, make no mistake; but not the way his colleagues sometimes consider him, as if he’s some troubled prodigy who they can’t keep up with because his brain is wired differently, thinking things they (normal people) could never comprehend. What Malcolm is, is driven. His mother would call him obsessed, (which he isn’t), dependent… maybe.

The truth is: his father was a doctor who taught him the many mysteries of the mind and body at a young age, often without regard of that young age. Then, his father was a murderer who wanted to talk shop; and Malcolm was burning with the desire to figure out not _why_ , but what he missed, and how to never be so blind again. He studied, and played his dad’s pupil, and overall, just threw himself into learning his trade with all the desperation of a sleep deprived man trying not to throw himself off a building. (He didn’t, obviously. And if anyone asks, the thought never crossed his mind.) So, what if gore and death don’t faze him? That has more to do with his doctor father having no filter than any Surgeon business. And if he’s twice as good as anyone else, it’s because he worked twice as hard as anyone else, not because he’s some freak living vicariously through the killers he profiles (Thank you, previous FBI handler, for _that_ analysis).

Malcolm throws open the door to Gil’s office, eager to escape the not-so-whispered comments, and then throws his hands up in an attempt to avoid barreling into JT. 

“Great.” JT looks down at Malcolm’s hand on his chest with pursed lips. “Return of the creepy bandage hand.”

Malcolm backs up a step, tries to regain some dignity, and failing that, elects to ignore Dani’s snicker. “Hello to you too, JT.”

“Do we want to know why creepy bandage hand is back?” Dani’s leaning against Gil’s desk, which Malcolm is instantly jealous of. Gil always kicks him off.

“If you must know,” He straightens his jacket with a sharp tug, “I was making breakfast. Hand slipped and…” He makes an exaggerated wincing face.

“Did you eat any of it?” Malcolm must hesitate too long because Gil rubs a hand over his face and points out the door with the other. “Morgue. Go. All of you to the Morgue.”

Dani pushes off the desk. “Might want to find a better way to phrase that, Boss. Sounds a bit dark.”

“I’ll show you dark.” Gil mutters, and Malcolm relaxes now that the focus is off of him. The bullpen mainly leaves him alone, now that he isn’t. Although Reese shoots him a rude gesture when Gil’s back is turned.

Once they’re in the cool blue lights of the basement hallway, Dani grabs him by the arm and pulls him back a step.

“What was that all about?”

“What?” He asks, though he’s pretty sure he knows.

“Falkner.” She answers and Malcolm sighs. “He just transferred, even you couldn’t have pissed him off that quickly.”

“Tell that to JT.” Malcolm tries but Dani just gives him a flat look and raises her brows. It’s eerily reminiscent of Gil’s go-to look when Malcolm’s avoiding the question. He deflates.

“He was on the force back in DC. The FBI was called in on a case. We had the suspect cornered, and I talked him down instead of letting Reese shoot at him. Now, he’s either mad because he thinks I ‘stole his collar’ or…” Malcolm winces, rubs at the back of his neck.

“Or?” Dani prods.

“He’s heard the rumors about how the FBI may have fired me because they think I’m crazy.” He says it fast, then walks faster, till he’s caught back up with the others and far from Dani’s questions.

Malcolm’s never felt so relieved to enter a morgue before.

“Edrisa, what do you have for me?” Gil asks, and the doctor spins around, smile already leaping up across her face. It’s the kind of unselfish smile that makes Malcolm smile back and makes Dani’s crossed arms lose about half a degree of tension; it’s basically a miracle.

“Ah, detectives!” Edrisa fumbles a bit. “Agent Bright.”

“Dead person.” JT interrupts.

“Right, dead person.” Edrisa nods and shakes her head and walks them over to where Samuel Hawthorne is laid out on the metal table. “So, if you look up here at the back of the neck you see—”

“Puncture wounds.” Dani leans back. “We were right on with the drugs, then.”

“Yes! That was my contribution.” Edrisa fiddles with her glasses, glancing up at Malcolm; then nearly pokes her eye out with them when he looks back. “Also, the tests came back, the blood on the pictures is in fact our victims.”

“Good work, Edrisa.” Gil looks over the corpse. “Anything else we should know about?”

Malcolm leans forward to study the body. The puncture marks, the incision crossing the throat. It’s so—

“Something felt off when I was talking to the kid.” JT shifts, uncomfortable. “So, I followed up on Bright’s theory. Turns out the Hawthorne’s were seeing a family therapist.”

“So, what, there’s abuse in the home and Ennis suddenly snaps?” Dani questions.

Malcolm shakes his head, leaning back. “There’s never a sudden snap… something is always the trigger.”

“Well,” JT continues. “Mrs. Hawthorne was the one to book the therapist. The family’s been seeing them for the last 4 months.” Which means—

“Ennis didn’t know about the therapist.” Malcolm says.

“What about spring break?” Dani asks.

“Kid went backpacking through Europe.” JT says.

Gil turns, eyebrow raised. “How’d you know that?”

“On his Facebook page.” JT answers at the same time Malcolm says, “In the photos on the mantle.”

“So, he comes back,” Dani pushes right through the uncomfortable moment, “And his Mom’s hired a family shrink. He’s forced to face the reality of the abuse. Which we know he responds—” She looks over at Malcolm. “ _intensely_ to. So, he decides to remove the heart of the problem.”

“Or…” Gil’s staring down at the metal table. “He’s triggered by the thought of reconciliation with Samuel.” He looks up. “Seeing someone you love trying to rebuild a relationship with their abuser can be infuriating.”

“Enough that he kills Samuel to prevent it from happening.” Dani finishes.

“Either way,” JT says, “I think we have a pretty good suspect.”

“Let’s bring him in.” Gil heads toward the door and the others follow. Of course, they do. Gil’s leading them, that’s what he is, a leader, and they have a suspect and—

“Wait.” Malcolm steps forward. “The incision, here. It’s very controlled, methodical. Almost… surgical.”

“And?” Gil asks, impatient, but willing to hear him out.

Malcolm takes a breath. “That doesn’t sound like someone who killed his abusive father in a rage.” There’s a pause then, where no one says anything, and yet somehow Malcolm is left feeling like there’s a conversation going on that he can’t hear.

Then Gil turns back for the door, and the others follow.

Of course, they do.

“Look,” Dani lays a hand on his arm as she leaves. “You were right on with the abuse. Trauma can respond in weird ways.”

“Yeah.” Malcolm says, because saying, ‘I know trauma can respond in weird ways because I just dreamed killing my father would kill me,’ would probably make Gil take him off the case. She gives a squeeze to his arm, a hint of a smile, and then she’s left too.

“Yeah.” Malcolm repeats, following them out of the morgue. “You’re probably right.”

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

The one benefit, Malcolm’s found, of being thought insane by the majority of his coworkers, is that no one bats an eye if he goes running through the precinct to get to the interrogation room.

“Gil!” He throws open the door.

Gil, both hands on the interrogation table to loom over the suspect, stiffens, then lets a deliberate looseness flow through rigid muscles. Across from him at the table, Ennis Hawthorne goes wide eyed at seeing a consultant practically flying into the room. When he recognizes Malcolm, his lips narrow and his eyes narrow, but his chest expands. Breath going deeper, fuller; prepping for a fight.

Gil takes another weirdly loose breath and straightens. “Malcolm. I thought I told you I was questioning a suspect.”

“Yeah, that’s the thing.” Malcolm pants, bent over at the waist. “You’re really not.” He pushes up to look Gil in the eye. “There’s been another murder.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The brain is back in business! Just a heads up for those who care about this sort of thing: I may be going back over the next few weeks to edit the last chapter (Chapter 5) again, now that my mind is running at more than 13% capacity. Nothing major, just polishing it to something I can be proud of. So, no… you are not crazy, things are changing :)


	7. Suspect

**MALCOLM**

JT’s low whistle reverberates around the pool shed, sinking into wood-paneled walls, giving an odd echo off stone slab floors. Malcolm looks up at the noise to where JT stands just inside the doorway. The sunlight shining down on the immaculate lawn outside sets him in silhouette, and Malcolm’s left blinking away little starbursts at the contrast. JT shoots a glance over his shoulder. “I’m pretty sure the resort I went to on my honeymoon had a pool smaller than this.” He gives a nod to Gil, and a more begrudging one to Edrisa; Malcolm gets a _look_ and crossed arms.

“Ah.” Malcolm raises his eyebrows. “But did it have a body?” He hears JT say something like ‘I think he’s getting weirder’ but Malcolm’s already focused on the body before him. Alan Bailey, age sixty-one, rich from spreading his lumber business from the west to all up and down the east coast: currently spreading blood all over the floor of his private pool shed.

“One of the gardeners spied the blood.” JT shifts, goes to stand by Gil. “Good thing, too. No one uses the pool, so it could have been months before they found him.”

“They would have found him.” Malcolm crouches next to the body, a bit too close to be respectable if he’s reading JT’s scoff right. “The smell.” He clarifies absently.

The slice on the throat is interesting, an even severing of skin and tissue, neat and controlled. “He’s very precise, with the wound, the staging. Control is important to him.” He looks up at Gil. “Once again, our killer has placed the victim in an out of the way area of the house, keeping him away from the family. And once again—” Malcolm leans down to track the milky blue eyes’ gaze, staring, staring… There.

A family portrait hangs above the door, directly in the corpse’s sightline. Wife and kids painted around their patriarch like precious stones in a crown. As he expected, the man himself is hidden, covered in his own blood, _separated_.

For a moment Malcolm lets himself imagine it; laying there, unable to move, unable to cry for help. Unable to do anything but _watch_ as this silhouette of a man gets a ladder and props it against the wall; as he reaches an unshaking hand out and oh God, he has a knife, that’s a _knife._ Pain then, pain and helplessness as warmth flows away in a steady, trickle crawl of blood from his neck. The shadow comes closer and he _can’t move_ —the shadow’s sliding away again, hand stained red. The dying sun hides the man as he climbs the ladder, but still offers enough light to see as the man covers his face with blood, _that’s his blood,_ as he _removes_ him from his family as—

“Edrisa?” Malcolm jerks at Gil’s question, has to press a hand to the floor to keep from slipping. The stone is cold, even through the thin plastic of his glove.

The doctor hurries forward. There’s a satisfaction to her when she does her work. Not pleasure, not exactly, but a kind of pride in doing the job and doing it well. “We have the same cause of death, slit throat, could be caused by the same weapon; probably a slim blade. We also took samples to test for the same drugs as used on Mr. Hawthorne.”

Dani takes that moment to enter the shed, and the sun sets her hair into a flaming halo. “All the pictures of Alan in the house have blood on them, same as our last Vic.”

Gil furrows his eyebrows. “Was there any sign of abuse?”

Dani looks surprised. “Nothing obvious, but—”

“It’ll be there.” Malcolm puts in even as his eyes draw back to the wound. There’s something about it, a gravity that keeps pulling him back… “Alan Bailey was a brute.” The slice is just so _clean_ and— Glancing up at the silence, he finds them all staring at him. He shrugs. “Worst kept secret in these circles.”

“No one did anything?” JT asks.

“His wife always covered for him. Wouldn’t hear a word against him.” Malcolm turns back to the body and waits out the agonizing seconds it takes for them to do the same.

“Ennis Hawthorne has an alibi.” Dani says. “First planning funeral arrangements with his mother and sister, then with us.”

“We’re going to have to come at this from a new angle.” Gil says. “I want to start cross referencing employees and social peers, get us some new suspects, since the son’s clear.”

Malcolm’s still staring at the blood. A knife wound, so precise, so intentional, almost… intimate.

He always says he sees the crime through the eyes of the killer; which isn’t quite true. When he thinks through a crime, the killer is blank, dark shadow; the victim is bright technicolor. He knows what the victim was; he looks at the corpse, then he restructures all the steps that took them from A to B; life to death. Now that he knows how the killer kills, he traces their progression; what took them from A to B; human to monster. People don’t like knowing how short those paths can be. They lash out, afraid, angry. He learned not to explain how he works after the first few times.

He always identifies with the victim, and once he finds the part of the killer that is a victim… 

“It’s still the Son killing the Father.” The words come out before he finishes the thought. “No, no, it’s a stand-in.” The pictures, the blood, the _watching._ He stands and looks at Gil, the truth of it sparking through his bones, making him want to _move_. “Our killer has issues with his father, wishes he had killed him. Then…” Malcolm paces, the certainty tearing through him like stones down a mountainside. “Something happened, his father’s gone, he sees how much better it is and now…”

“He’s killing other abusive fathers.” Gil finishes, taps a finger against his chin. Malcolm tries to relax; Gil understands, he believes him, that should be enough to let the energy go but—

JT whistles, low and lingering. “Sure you’re still talking about our guy?”

Malcolm grins over at him, probably looking a bit manic but unsure of how to stop. “Did you know you are statistically more likely to have a parent killed by a lightning strike then a parent who is a serial killer?”

JT shifts, looks at Dani, the way he does when he’s trying to see if Malcolm’s made anyone other than him uncomfortable. “So?”

“So—it’s highly unlikely that our killer and I are all that similar.” He forces his focus down to the body, at the pool of red gone dark around it. “Besides, our perp is killing abusive fathers.”

A burning red sensation crawls up his spine; he can practically _feel_ them exchanging glances behind him. There’s a pause, a _who’s-going-to-say-something-_ hesitation before, “You’re telling me the Surgeon wasn’t an abusive dad?” Dani asks.

“Perfect childhood. Well, up to the whole…”

“Serial killing…” Edrisa nods, enlightened.

“What can I say?” Malcolm gives an over exaggerated shrug, “He never tried to kill me.” He shakes off the sense of a hand over his mouth, the sticky sweet smell of chloroform, and turns back to the body. “So, _this_ killer would be unassuming looking, enough muscle mass to be able to move his victims, but meek enough to get close enough to the families to see the abuse.”

There’s a second where he thinks they’re not going to let it go, not going to _move on,_ when, “What about bodyguards?” JT puts in, and Malcolm’s tension leaves in a rush. “Right weight class but still close to the family.”

“You’re right.” Malcolm presses a hand to his head. “I should have seen that.”

Gil nods, calm and decisive, more to himself than the team. “Alright, JT, look over employee records for overlap. Dani, you’re with me, we’ll start interviewing the family, the widow, Linda Bailey first. Malcolm…” Gil pauses, and Malcolm perks up. “Stay with me so I can keep an eye on you.” Malcolm deflates.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

“You’re stuck outside too, dear?”

Malcolm looks up at the voice and sees a woman in her late sixties, also sitting outside the interrogation room in an uncomfortable chair just two down from where he’s been trying to burn a hole in the door using the power of his mind.

“Afraid so,” He holds out his hand, “Malcolm Bright.”

“Janet Carter, friend of Linda’s.” It fits. The signs are subtle; her jacket is simply cut, only a few choice glints of gold jewelry on tanned hands, but the fabric is the quality found only in extravagantly expensive clothes, and the ring holds real emeralds. Someone else might have missed it, but Mother had Malcolm trained on spotting social climbers since he could climb out of his crib. Ms. Carter is nothing of the sort.

“I heard the news,” he offers, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

She snorts, delicately. “I’m sure Linda would appreciate that.”

Malcolm squints at her, at the way she sets her gaze to the side. “But you don’t.”

Janet looks at him shocked and for a second, he thinks he miscalculated, before she lets out a breath of laughter. “You’re a sharp one.” She clutches her purse. “The only thing I’d appreciate was if the old fart had gotten it twenty years ago.” She sniffs. “Would have been better for the whole family.”

Malcolm takes a moment to compare her size with the force necessary to lift a 280-pound deadweight (he’s learned old ladies can be horrifyingly robust), but quickly dismisses the thought when he spies her elegant, mother-of-pearl headed cane. “Not a fan of the late Mr. Bailey?”

“Hardly. I told Linda he was a good for nothing bully and she should leave him but…”

“She wouldn’t hear of it.” Malcolm gives a sympathetic smile.

“No.” Janet looks at her lap. “The poor fool even hired a family therapist to try and patch things up. I could have told her it’d never work. Leopards and spots and all.”

Something teases at his mind; a resonance repeated an octave up. “Do you happen to have the name of that therapist?”

“Thomas Kent. Why, dear?” She looks puzzled. “Do you have family troubles?”

“Something like that.” Malcolm surreptitiously stares at the door and thinks that now would be a real great time for Gil to walk through it.

“Oh, honey.” She pats his knee. “Some people are not worth it. Family or not, it doesn’t give them the right to hurt you.”

“Thanks.” Malcolm smiles at her even as he watches in relief as a crying woman, Linda probably, emerges clinging onto Gil. He’s looking the specific type of calm and professionally sympathetic that means he’s wildly uncomfortable. “I’ll be sure to keep that in mind.”

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

“Thomas Kent.” Malcolm and JT state at the same time.

JT glares but then surprises Malcolm by giving a somewhat begrudging, “In the financial records.”

“Family friend outside the interrogation room.” Malcolm counters with a slight grin.

“Not to step into this… weird, bonding, thing…” Dani looks unimpressed, “But I’m assuming this means something to the case?”

“The Bailey’s use the same family therapist as the Hawthorne’s?” Gil asks, looking between them.

“Yes, and—” Malcolm stops himself, “JT has the files?”

“Thomas Kent.” JT holds up a picture of a big guy with a floof of sandy-brown hair and a mousy expression and passes it around the table. “Went to school to be a surgeon, got burned out. Switched over into family therapy. The Hawthorne’s were a recent client, but he’s been working with the Bailey’s for years.”

Gil studies the photo. “So why the sudden break?”

“Check for recent obituaries with his name.” Malcolm stands to pace behind them. “Between a month and three months or so before the Hawthorne’s at most.”

Dani pulls up her laptop. “I’m not seeing anything…”

“Who’s that in the picture with him?” Gil asks, tapping on the photo. Malcolm stops pacing to lean over his shoulder, which Gil takes with good grace. The woman is tall, but she doesn’t look it, seems to be crouched over herself like she’s afraid of the space her body takes up.

“Her? Umm…” JT scrolls on his phone. “Tagged as, a Maria Daniels.”

Malcolm nods, “His mother. For sure.” He steps back again. “Try Daniels. He might have changed his name to distance himself from his f—” He stops, covers his eyes with his hand. “Don’t say anything, JT.”

“I didn’t say anything, man.” He inclines his head. “So long as you see it.”

“Found it.” Dani shows them the screen. “Todd Daniels, car accident almost two months ago.”

Malcolm keeps walking. “He’s probably always wanted to do something like this. Thought about it, _dreamed_ about it, pictured how he’d do it. Fear held him back.” He throws his hands up. “But then his Dad dies and there’s no repercussions! It’s like a sign from the universe. And then it’s all…” He snaps his fingers. “This is great, I’m so much better off, you know who else would be better off?”

JT shakes his head. “His work gives him his targets, and it’s easy enough to learn their schedules.”

“Getting the drugs would be no problem for a psychiatrist.” Dani leans back.

Malcolm stops and faces them. “And then he’s free to live out the fantasy.” Seeing he made the jump faster than the other two, he elaborates. “That he’s always had the power to remove the abuser from his life.”

“Well.” Gil says, and Malcolm jerks, having forgotten his mentor in the back and forth. “I think we have a suspect.” 

“Great.” Malcolm grins. “Where do we start?”

“You know,” Gil grabs him by the shoulder and guides him out of the room, “I have the perfect job for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Thanks to everyone who's commented--- you guys are the best!
> 
> If you like my little story, drop a kudos...that way it's easier for other fans to find too :)


	8. What's Left

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I added the Jessica & Malcolm tag cuz I somehow missed it *facepalm*

**Malcolm**

Malcolm fiddles with his watchband and resolutely _doesn’t_ check the time again. Sitting on a bench outside a café, he lets his leg bounce and waits for Gil’s contact to show up. While Gil _said_ this was for the case, Malcolm wouldn’t be surprised if this was a scheme to make sure he eats lunch, which stings, honestly. Gil sometimes seems to forget, but Malcolm hasn’t been that eleven-year-old kid scared out of his mind for almost twenty-one years now. He’s had a job, solved cases; he’s even faced his father again (with relative success, considering). If he can just prove that he’s good at his job, no, indispensable, then surely Gil will have to keep giving him cases?

Malcolm frowns and studies the café in front of him. Surprisingly upscale, for a cop meeting; the gold bordered windows look more like someplace his mother would be seen at then—

Oh no.

Gil you didn’t.

“Malcolm!” His mother exclaims. “I’m so glad you decided to join me for lunch.” 

He walks over, pulls her to the side. “What are you doing here?”

“Gil told me you wanted to meet.” She pulls her sunglasses off and puts them into her purse, frowns and lifts his chin with one delicately scented hand. “I can see from your face he didn’t tell you.”

He shakes her off. “I have to get back.”

“Malcolm Evan Whitly!” The tone makes him stop; he knows better than to ignore her once the middle name comes out. “You will do no such thing.” She links her arm through his. “I’ve already made the reservations.” 

\--- --- --- --- ---

Lunch passes with the usual small talk: critique of the café’s décor, discussion of the friend of a friend who owns it, and the latest goings on in the high society world; all peppered throughout with mildly disparaging remarks on his career, Ainsley’s career, the new maid, and anything else that catches his mother’s ire. When their drinks first arrived, Mother had promptly doctored hers, and offered to do the same to his. Malcolm had declined. Now, he’s starting to wish he hadn’t.

“Mother,” He pushes his cup away from him. “Why did you want to see me, really?”

“Maybe I missed you.” She smiles, sweet, and reaches across the table to put her hand over his. Malcolm loves his mother but—

His mother is _not_ sweet.

“You called Gil.” She’s still smiling at him. He narrows his eyes. “Voluntarily.”

“Fine.” She drops the smile and his hand to dig through her purse. She and Gil have always had a rather… tempestuous relationship. She didn’t approve of her son latching onto an older man (tragic surrounding circumstances or not). Gil didn’t approve of her self-medicating around the kids. Add in the time angry teenage Malcolm called Jackie ‘Mom’ just to piss his Mother off…

An envelope hits the table between them with a gentle thwack. Startling, Malcolm looks at her, then reaches slowly for it. It’s a heavy paper, the scent of rose rising up as he untucks the flap. It’s filled with neat stacks of bills.

He puts it back on the table, eyes her as she sips her tea. “Mother, what is this?”

“Tickets.” She shifts back in her seat. “For you and Ainsley, wherever you want to go.” The teacup lowers and she meets his eyes. “I want you out of New York.”

“What?” He starts to laugh; she doesn’t. “Mom, we can’t just leave. I have a job; Ainsley has a job—”

The teacup hits the table with a clank. “And they’re tearing the two of you apart.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? Malcolm, you don’t eat, you look like you haven’t slept in a month!”

“You know I’ve never slept well.”

“Don’t you dare tell me it hasn’t gotten worse since you moved back here.” Her eyes are burning. “Since you saw him again.”

Malcolm winces, looks down. While he has no idea how Mother could have possibly figured that out, he also has no way to fight what she’s saying without lying straight to her face, which never really worked on his mother. At least not for him. Dr. Whitly seemed to manage just fine.

When he lifts his head, Mother has settled back but there’s a strange look on her face. Her lips press together. Reluctance? No, resignation. She gives a long exhale. “I didn’t call Gil.”

“What?”

“He called me. He’s—” She cuts herself off, reaches to toy with the pearl in her necklace. “You know how I feel. Felt. About Gil becoming such a big part of your life.” She tugs her hand away from her necklace, smooths down her already impeccable blouse instead. “A mother feels insecure when her child would rather rely on a veritable stranger then trust her.”

“Mom...” He stops. He doesn’t know what to say.

She waves him off. “No, no, it’s… He saved you, then. You needed to know that—” She pauses, trips a bit, “That _someone_ would be there for you.” She draws up to her full height then, head high, neck exposed, and meets his eyes for the first time since she mentioned Gil. “But Malcom, understand that if I ever for a second thought that Gil Arroyo had anything but good intentions for you, I would have kicked him to the curb.” She subsides. “But he’s always looked out for you, even when I didn’t, _couldn’t_ , appreciate that.”

He shakes his head. “Why are you telling me this?”

“So, you recognize that when Gil Arroyo calls me and tells me he’s concerned about my son, I take that _damn_ seriously.” The curse catches him by surprise. She must see it, see _something,_ because her tone softens. “He’s worried, _I’m_ worried, love.” She is. He can see it in the way her eyebrows draw in, the way she’s clasped her hands together, but her thumb keeps running over her bare ring finger. He’s not sure what to tell her, not sure what she even _wants._ He tries anyway.

“We both know I’ve always been… unstable, but Ainsley—”

“Ainsley is getting pulled in by your father.” She states it firm. She states it like _facts._ Like Ainsley—

From very far away he can feel her cup his cheek in her hand. He drags his gaze up and _out_ to meet hers. He can’t tell what she sees, can’t tell anything. This whole conversation has him unmoored and she’s just _looking_ at him like he’s the culmination of everything she regrets. “I will never forgive myself for letting you go to him as a child.” He feels her thumb brush against his cheekbone before she pulls her hand away. His face feels cold. “I won’t lose Ainsley to him too.” She stands, grabs her purse, and the cold bleeds down his neck as she begins to walk away.

“I’m right here, Mother.” He says. It feels like pleading.

She stops, turns back to meet his eyes, and her look sears like a brand. “Are you?” He can’t hold her gaze. There’s a pause, then the _tap tap_ of her heels as she leaves him staring down at his long-cooled cup of tea.

The envelope still sits there, taunting him. Tickets. He gives himself one moment, to consider it. Leave New York.

Leave behind the cases, the team, the show of never-ending horrors people invent for each other. Leave the memories, the incessant calls, the net that keeps pulling him back to Claremont. Leave Gil and Ainsley and his Mom. But if he leaves all that—

What’s left?

The nightmares. The tremor. Sunshine.

Himself.

Sees-too-much, says-too-much Malcolm. Keeps-missing-things, won’t-explain-what-he’s-thinking Malcolm. Dad’s-a-killer, weird-guy, _why’d you bring him here_ —

The buzzing of his phone brings him back.

Dani: _No sign of the doctor_

_Did find a pay trail for the paralytics_

_Waiting on warrant for home and office now_

He gets up, past ready to get back to work. His mother is the crazy one. He’s right where he needs to be.

He takes the envelope anyway.

\--- --- --- --- ---

“Hey.” Malcolm grabs Dani’s elbow, slowing her from the bustle of people hurrying around the precinct. “Where’s Gil?”

“Probably prepping for the raid, why?”

“He sent me to lunch with my mother, Dani. My mother!” He looks closer at her. “You knew. You knew the whole time!”

“JT too.” Dani says. “What I don’t get is how you can tell that by one look at my face but can’t see what Gil has planned from a mile off.”

“It’s Gil. I don’t need to read him! He’s…” Malcolm throws his hands in the air.

“He’s Gil.” Dani states flatly.

Malcolm slumps. “Yeah.”

“You’re not on guard around him because you don’t think you need to be. He saved you as a kid and now…” Dani shrugs.

Malcolm stares at her. “Is that what it’s like when I do that?”

“Oh, you’re way more intrusive and annoying.” Dani actually smiles at him. “Look, there’s the man himself.”

“Gil!” Malcolm calls and watches as across the room Gil spots him, then does an immediate about-face. Malcolm dodges around a few people, ignores the cursing and quickly catches up.

“I take it lunch went well?” Gil asks like he hadn’t just tried to avoid him and keeps moving.

“You said that it was for the good of the case.” Malcolm trails after him, admittedly sounding a bit accusatory.

“It is. I need you tonight.” He looks over his shoulder. “And not passing out from lack of nutrition.” Malcolm is determinedly ignoring the warmth in his chest from the ‘I need you’, because he’s still angry, damnit, when he draws up short…

“I’m going on the raid?”

Gil lets out a bark of laughter. “You’re not coming.”

“I won’t get in the way!”

“Two words, Malcolm.” Gil turns him with a hand on his shoulder. “Snake. Bite.”

Malcolm tries to argue that there shouldn’t be any snakes; and Kent probably isn’t even going to be there; and really, it could be important; when he looks around and finds Gil has successfully shepherded him into his office while he was distracted.

“You,” Gil pushes him down on the couch, “Are going to stay here and sleep.”

“Wait, what?”

Gil gives him a sharp look. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed the way you’ve been dragging the last few days.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. Just today, JT commented on my energy.” At Gil’s raised eyebrow he amends. “He may have complained and threatened to kill whoever’s been giving me sugar on the down-low.”

“Okay, so dragging and manic. You’re not giving me any comfort about your mental health, kid.”

“I’m not crazy!” Malcolm shouts, then immediately feels the slow trickle-crawl of guilt. “Sorry.” Malcolm presses his hands over his eyes. “I guess I do need some sleep.”

“You’ll get some here while we do our jobs, and when we get back, you can do yours,” Gil taps two fingers against Malcolm’s forehead. “With a clear head. Can you do that?”

“I can try?” Malcolm offers.

Gil moves to his desk and roots through his drawer. “Still have trouble sleeping?”

“You know me, insomnia and I are close bedfellows.” And sometimes he brings along horrifying nightmares and they have a real party. Christ, maybe Malcolm is too tired for this.

“I have ZzzQuil if you need it.” Gil walks back over and offers him the pill bottle.

Malcolm eyes the innocuous pills, and bites at his lip. “You’ll wake me up?”

Gil softens, which means he’s seen something on Malcolm’s face, which wasn’t supposed to happen— “Sure, kid. I gotcha.” He squeezes at the back of Malcolm’s neck. “I’ll be back after we hit the office,” He heads towards the door, where Malcolm can now see Dani standing, waiting. “I’ll need your brain ready!” Gil calls as he leaves. The door shuts with a soft click, muffling the sounds of the precinct.

Malcolm sits alone on the leather couch, staring at the pill bottle clutched in his hand. He takes a few quick breaths. “He needs your brain.” He mutters under his breath as he opens the bottle. “He needs you ready.” He repeats it as he gets out the proper dose, an affirmation. He weighs the pills in his hand. 

“He needs you.”

Malcolm dry-swallows the pills.

Not so hard after all.


	9. Filed Away

**MALCOLM**

Malcolm wakes to the smell of Saturday morning; eggs and pancakes overlaid with the scent of all-natural maple syrup. It’s enough to lure him from the warm bubble of his bed, down long arching hallways to the kitchen.

His mother is already there, humming a soft tuneless song. She stands by the sink, framed by the bright box of a window, and the sunlight streaming in plays across her face to paint her golden and lovely.

“Oh, there’s my boy.” Mother leans over and kisses his cheek. “Eat up, but not too much; don’t want to spoil your appetite for dinner tonight. The Rathmore’s just hired a wonderful new chef from Italy.”

“The Rathmore’s?” He sits carefully at the kitchen island.

“I swear, you always have your head in the clouds.” Mother laughs, and the sound dances around the room. “Hurry up and eat, we’re supposed to meet Ainsley after her big interview.”

“Interview?” Malcolm tenses, “You let her interview Da—Dr. Whitly?”

Mother turns to him with a slight puzzled smile. “Who, dear?”

“That’s not funny.” Malcolm looks around; the golden light, the windows, the hazy blunted edges. “This isn’t right.” And why was Mother in the kitchen anyway? She never made Saturday morning pancakes, that was always…

“Where’s Dad?”

“Malcolm?” Mother puts her tea down (and when had she picked it up?), to fuss. “What’s wrong, my love?” She reaches for his head, “Are you running—"

He grabs her by the shoulders, and she feels so soft and _still_ , no pounding heart or rushing blood or up and down of air. “Where’s Dr. Whitly? Where’s Dad?”

Mother puts her hands to his chest, over his heart. “You’re scaring me. Lay down and I’ll call a doctor.” She brightens, then, looking over his shoulder at something or someone behind him. “Oh, there he is! My son is quite upset.” Mother waves a fluttering hand, a come-on-in, as Malcolm wrenches away from her and turns right into the face of Dr. Martin Whitly.

“Let’s see if we can’t get you fixed up, my boy.” His smile spreads as he holds up a cloth, (or is it a syringe?) and Malcolm _bolts_.

He runs down the hall to the front door, to _out_ , to where Gil will be waiting with his car and a protective hand and a _gun_ and—

The door is gone. There’s a set of stairs, rough hewn wood, arcing up where the exit should be. He fumbles to a stop, unsure. There’s no exit upstairs, he’d be trapped but—

A gust of air surges from behind him, hot and strong and carrying the sickly-sweet smell of chloroform. It’s enough. He charges up the stairs and the sound of his father’s voice fills the room he just left. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Malcolm is dimly aware that he’s shaking, not just the tremor, but full-bodied full-spirit terror that sends him racing past burning lungs and aching legs and up and up and up. He hears a laugh, a call to ‘slow down’.

He doesn’t.

Not when his father calls; not when his body screams in bloody red and bile yellow for rest; not when the wallpaper starts tearing off the walls, like some invisible animal is clawing it away to expose the base wood. As he runs, Malcolm’s mind starts skipping; a flash of a turned page, the words of a song long forgotten, a tear in the veil growing larger until the slow awareness slithers its way out.

He’s done this before.

The thought makes him stumble on the top step, makes him hit the landing hard enough to skin his palm, red spreading under him across the floor. He clutches his hand to his chest, finds his feet, and heads down the hallway stretched out ahead of him. It’s windowless, but lit and the farther he goes down it, the more it narrows, until he fears he’ll crush himself if he keeps going.

He doesn’t stop though, not when his father’s voice is still following, like some grasping snake. The voice remains clear, no matter how far he runs, and perfectly audible, but it’s not loud. Not the muffled quiet of being spoken from a distance, but the even volume used when right beside him, telling bedtime stories in the dark.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Malcolm.” It comes again. “There’s nowhere to go.”

Malcolm jerks to a stop as he sees it’s true, the never-ending hallway is gone as if it’d never been, emptying him into a stark room. The ancient smell of dusty wood oozes from the walls, thick and unbreakable. The room itself is bathed in shadows, heavy as smoke; the only light coming from a window across from him, strangely reminiscent of the one from his loft.

Dead end. He spins around but behind him, to his left, his father stands, smile a bright slash in the gloom; to his right, the box lurks, heavy and stifling, weighted with an instinctive terror. The air feels thin, like he’s high enough up to be left gasping.

“Now what are you going to do?” His father smiles, charmed and amused by the mess his little boy has gotten himself in. “You know I can’t let you leave.” His voice darkens and the room darkens with it until Malcolm feels the very shadows pressing down on his skin.

The walls pull in closer, or maybe his father and the box loom larger. Malcolm has only a moment to think ‘I’m going to die’, before he’s launching himself through the window. Glass shatters with a scream and he goes tumbling through the air, catching a glimpse of towering pines before he squeezes his eyes close and waits to hit the ground with a—

(Thump)

Malcolm jerks as Gil drops a heavy box of files on the floor.

“Oh, good, You’re up.” Gil offers a hand to pull him to his feet. Malcolm takes it, disoriented and pathetically grateful for something to ground him to reality. “I was just about to wake you.” Gil pauses, frowns. “Are you alright?”

Malcolm shakes his head. “Yeah. I’m fine. Slept the whole time. It went well?” He guesses, eying the others bringing in box after box of files to stack on every conceivable surface of Gil’s office.

“No sign of Kent, but we were able to seize his patient files.”

Malcolm blinks, pulling his mind back from where it is still waiting to hit the ground, and focuses on his mentor. “You’re trying to find the next victim.”

Gil smiles. “Sharp as ever. Do you think you’re up to the task?”

Malcolm bites back his instinctive, desperate, yes, and actually looks at the number of boxes still streaming in. “I can narrow it down, but I don’t know how fast I’ll be.” He dodges to avoid the next stack of boxes coming in, but still gets hit with a solid shoulder check, hard enough to send him back a step. He looks up, but Reese doesn’t meet his eyes. Gil’s tilted his head, studying them, but Malcolm knows how this will go; ask for an apology and everything’s suddenly ‘accidental’. He covers before Gil can start poking at things. “This has to be what, fifteen, twenty years of files?” He looks it over again. “I just slept so if I work straight through for the next—”

“What’s your coffee order?” Malcolm almost jumps out of his skin when Dani casually puts a hand on his shoulder and leans against him.

“I’m sorry?” Malcolm doesn’t know what his face looks like, but Gil is smirking at him so it’s probably unflattering.

“Coffee.” Dani says, unperturbed. “You might run on sheer trauma alone, but the rest of us need caffeine if we’re gonna do an all-nighter.” She lowers her voice. “Tell me your order cause we’re sending Falkner and we wouldn’t want him to accidentally forget yours.”

Malcolm stares at her, surprised. “Thanks. Well then, Piccolo latte.”

“Of course.” Dani looks amused. “Gil?”

“Black.”

Malcolm can hear her mutter something like ‘predictable’ before she’s out into the bullpen. She walks right up to Reese and, after a moment of discussion, she’s removing the box from his hands and deftly bullying him into taking their orders.

JT comes over as Dani leaves and puts down his boxes with a huff. “That’s the last load.”

“Alright.” Gil surveys the room piled haphazardly with boxes as Dani comes back in. “Everyone takes a box. Files we don’t need go back in. Boxes we don’t need go in the hall. Malcolm, what are we looking for?”

The sudden weight of their stares throws Malcolm for a moment. He closes his eyes and thinks. “We can exclude any lesbian and gay couples; there will be a Father, a Mother, and at least one Child, most likely a Son. The abuse will be from the Father spread across the rest of the family, both wife and children. The victim will be older, kids almost grown or adults themselves. The next kill will be local, he knows we’re onto him and will catch him if he tries to leave the city. He’s doing this as a spree, as many as he can before we take him down. Beyond that, pass them to me and I’ll see if I can narrow it down.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

Anton Saunders. From the notes on the wife’s sessions, definitely verbally abusive; and though she’s never stated it, Malcolm thinks there’s probably been a few instances of physical abuse too. Forty-seven years old and… no kids. Malcolm puts the file aside and grabs the next.

“You know,” Dani says, “I really didn’t need to see a lot of this.” She tosses her current file into the ‘no’ box with a bit of extra vehemence. “In this one the husband was sleeping with his wife’s brother.”

“That could cause problems.” Gil comments from where he used his seniority to get the desk chair.

“The wife’s brother is also dating the husband’s cousin.”

“Guess everyone has issues.” Malcolm says absently as he pursues the next file. This one looks promising, lots of complaints against a Jacob. He flips through; the Bradwell family; father, mother, three kids; Angelina, Grace, and…Jacob. Well, that’s a bust. Following a hunch, he looks for the father who is…currently in a private apartment on FBI house arrest. Malcolm tosses it in the box.

“How about this one?” JT passes the file to Malcolm. “Kyle Forewrite, fifty-six, all-around rich guy scumbag, even got the cops called on him for domestic abuse.”

Malcolm skims it over. “It’s not this one. The mom just died of pancreatic cancer, the kids are grieving, soon to be scattered across the country.” He tosses it in the box. “Kyle’s already lost his family.”

Malcolm looks up to the tail end of Gil’s proud smile and quickly surveys the piles of boxes left to (hopefully) hide the flushing in his cheeks. There’s still a lot of boxes. Gil’s practically surrounded on the island of his desk.

JT stops for a stretch. “I think we need more coffee.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

“Who’s that?” Dani asks, an innumerable number of files later, after Malcolm’s phone has rung as many times in the last ten minutes. Maybe it’s the coffee or the way he hasn’t felt alone for nearly three hours now, but Malcolm finds himself answering honestly.

“Dr. Whitly has discovered the wonders of phone privileges.” He hefts another stack of files into his ‘no’ box.

“The Surgeon just called.” JT mutters to Dani. “That’s never not going to be weird.”

“And you just gave him your number?” That’s Gil now, obviously gearing up for a lecture.

“No!” Malcolm resists the urge to roll his eyes. “He probably bribed an orderly.”

“With what?” JT looks morbidly intrigued.

Malcolm shrugs. “He’s always been horrifyingly good at getting people to do what he wants.”

“That’s not going to help me sleep at night.” JT says and Malcolm snorts because, finally! Someone else gets it.

His phone buzzes again on the table where he left it after they all migrated to the floor, seeming way louder now that they’ve drawn attention to it. “Is he just going to keep calling?” Dani asks finally.

“The first time I tried to ignore him, he left over 70 messages.” He finishes with his current file (Raymond Winsor, run of the mill marriage issues) then looks up. “I can silence it.”

As if to punctuate, another call comes through. “Nope. Too creepy.” JT reaches up and tosses Malcolm his phone.

\--- --- --- --- ---

They’ve long since finished their coffee, and everyone’s drooping a bit, even Malcolm. He should be fine, considering he’s actually slept for once thanks to Gil, but something about reading these files, pages and pages of the ways families can be broken and pieced together, odd and not quite right, leaves him exhausted. But there’s only four more boxes so they each take one.

“This one fits.” Dani offers, much less exuberantly than she did a few hours ago. “Owen Kingsley, wife and kids both mention his controlling behavior and,” she cuts off, tosses the file on the floor in frustration. “Our perp hasn’t worked with them since they moved to LA three years ago.”

“What do we do if we can’t find it?” It’s JT who finally askes the question. He and Dani both look to Gil, and Malcolm would too, except—

“Richard Martin Bresson.” Now they’re looking at him. “Investor, two sons, just celebrated his sixtieth. Mrs. Bresson, with the support of her kids, is looking into getting a divorce because, ‘It’s gone on long enough, Mom doesn’t need to put up with the old man’s abuse’.” Malcolm looks up. “Gil, I think we got him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for so many dream sequences... but they are addictive!!


	10. Bad Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and happy new year! This is my exactly-in-the-middle chapter!
> 
> To celebrate finishing editing this milestone chapter, I let myself post a self-indulgent Hurt!Malcolm Protective!Gil one-shot [The Moments Between](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459437) if anyone is interested in that :)
> 
> Thank you for all the kudos and comments and silent read alongs, I'm beyond excited to share the second half of this monster with you guys!

**Malcolm**

Malcolm glares at Sunshine.

It’s really not fair of him, it’s not her fault that Gil sent him home once they set up a protective detail for Richard Martin Bresson. It’s definitely not her fault he hasn’t been able to sleep a wink since that night on Gil’s couch two days ago. His mother and Ainsley still aren’t talking to each other, except little pointed messages and manipulations they keep trying to deliver through him. He’s taken to compiling a list of sudden ‘urgent’ reasons to get off the phone. In short, Malcolm is bored, exhausted, severely lacking in social contact, and has started talking to (and glaring at) his bird way more than socially acceptable.

And boredom’s always led to bad decisions. 

Malcolm gets out every Surgeon file he’s been able to get copies of over the last few years and spreads them out over the floor. He loses himself in the puzzle of it, the death and the blood and the organ removal, and tries to find the driver. People have called the Surgeon a sadist, and well, the pain is certainly there. You can’t swap two people’s body parts without some manner of pain, let alone when you don’t offer any anesthesia; so Malcolm can see how someone might have gotten there.

It doesn’t mean they’re not completely wrong. Even with that case, one of the more horrific, the pain was a byproduct, not the goal. (the transplant twins the media had called them, Faith Griffith and Carrie Wilson, by the time they’d been found the killer had swapped so many pieces of them you couldn’t tell who was originally who. Blood tests were no good, because of the perpetual transfusion set up. By the time they were both identified, the media had already coined the moniker ‘The Surgeon’.) When Malcolm questioned his father about them, he’d started on about the old philosophy question; the ship of Theseus: if you replace all the original components, is it still fundamentally the same thing you had at the beginning? (“They both died when I attempted the cardiac transplant. Turns out a man’s identity does lie with the heart!”) 

Malcolm rubs at his eyes and shifts, hissing as his numb legs make themselves known. The light’s different from when he started, the early morning sun giving way to gathering evening. He grabs at his phone to see how much time he lost when he notices a voice message from Ainsley.

“Hi big brother! This is your friendly heads up that I will be at your place in about fifteen minutes. You should let me in; I brought Chinese food.” Malcolm checks the time on the message: almost fourteen minutes ago. He looks around wildly; there is definitely not enough time to get all the files back in their hiding spot, and if Ainsley saw them... He instead gathers them into a heap, mentally wincing at how disorganized they’re getting, and shoves the whole pile under the couch. He has only a second to debate finding a better spot when the knock comes.

“Ainsley! Hi.” He opens the door and smiles at her. “Now’s not really a great time so—”

“Malcolm, please.” Ainsley raises her eyebrows. “We both know you have no social life, as much as I wish otherwise. And I haven’t heard anything about a new body,” Her eyes narrow, “Unless you know something I don’t.”

“There’s no new body.” Malcolm sighs as she slips past him up the stairs. He calls after her. “And even if there was, I couldn’t tell you.”

She turns from where she’d been saying hi to Sunshine. “I’ve told you before.”

“Ainsley. You are a reporter. Your job is to tell people.”

“And you’re police. Your job is to know stuff.” She drops the takeout on the counter.

Malcolm raises a finger. “Consultant.” He frowns. “With tenuous job security.” He puts his hand down. “Why are you here, Ains?”

“So I know mom has probably still been harassing you—” She starts, which 1) answers nothing, and 2)…

“Both. You’ve both been…I feel like I’m in the middle of a ‘tell her I’m not talking to her’ argument.”

“That’s not—”

“Do I have to show you my phone? I have the messages.”

She wrinkles her nose at him but concedes the point. “Sorry. I may have gone a bit overboard.”

“It’s…” not okay, but, “What it is.” She still looks upset, so he nudges her shoulder with his own. “I really just didn’t know if my voicemail could take it. Before was bad enough, but now with all three of you.” He glances over to see if that was enough only to find her completely focused on him.

“Three?”

“Ah, Gil he, uh.”

“Cut the crap, Malcolm. I can’t believe you!” She throws her hands up. “You’re telling me to stay away while you have nice long chats on your cell phone?”

“I don’t answer!” (Much) He eyes her warily as she heads toward the couch, and the incriminating stack of files underneath it. “Do you want something to drink?”

“No.” She says, and Malcolm watches wide eyed as she sits on the sofa. “I want to know what’s going on with you and dad. Why are you so scared of me talking to him?”

“I don’t want you to end up like me! He’ll get in your head, and you won’t be able to get him back out.” Malcolm doesn’t want to see pity in her eyes, so he turns his back to her, runs a hand through his hair. “Look. I’ve been pulled in before, but I’m keeping my distance. I’ve moved on, so should you.”

“Malcolm—” He can hear the exasperation in her voice, and yes, the pity; then he hears a sound like shifting paper, like someone accidentally nudged a file, then picked it up to flip through it. His stomach drops through the floor. “What is this? Have you been holding out on me?”

He turns fast— “Ainsley, don’t!” –but not quite fast enough. She’s already opened the file.

“Ha! I knew there was another body…” She trails off, staring, then understanding. “Malcolm, is this… You tell me you’ve moved on while this is literally under your couch?” She looks at him, eyes wide. “This is not distance.”

Malcolm sits down next to her, suddenly tired. “I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Ains.”

“Maybe why you have a Surgeon file—” She pauses, reaches under the couch, “Excuse me, files in your house.” She continues before he has a chance to answer, which is good, because he has no idea what to say. “Why didn’t you tell me about these? I could have saved so much time on research.”

He feels like he could’ve snapped his neck from how quickly he turns towards her. “You’re not mad?”

“Why would I be mad? This is a goldmine.” She’s already taking pictures with her phone.

He grabs it from her. “Not a good idea.”

“As bad as having these files in the first place? Because seriously—” She jabs him in the side with her finger, in the same spot she’d discovered was ticklish when she was still a fresh-faced toddler. Malcolm jolts, and Ainsley has her phone back. “—I’m pretty sure having copies of these kinds of case files is more on the dubious side of dubious legality.”

Malcolm groans. “Fine. Ask me your questions.”

“What?”

“Ask me what you’re going to ask him. You do have a plan, right? Because let me tell you, going in there without a plan.” He laughs, and even to him it doesn’t sound quite right. “You might as well hand him a scalpel.”

“I’m going to give him a list of prepared questions,” She continues before he can even start on how stupid that would be. “But instead, I’d confront him about his victims, try to throw him off.”

“You think you can throw off the Surgeon.”

“If it doesn’t work, he at least won’t come out of it looking good.”

Malcolm leans back and stares up at the ceiling. “That could work,” this time he cuts her off, “ _If_ he was anyone but the Surgeon. He’ll probably mention the patients he saved. He was quite a good doctor.” He looks at her wryly, but to his discomfort, Ainsley doesn’t seem at all put off, but rather glowing.

“This is why I need you! You know him like no one else, you can tell me where to press.”

“Ainsley…”

“Just think about it, okay?” She picks up her things. “I have to get going.” She leans over and kisses his forehead. “Make sure you eat.”

“Ainsley.” He calls when he can hear her footsteps start down the first stair. “You didn’t give me back my files.”

She laughs, “Fine!” More footsteps, a soft thwap of paper, “They’re on the counter.” 

He leans back on the sofa and closes his eyes; she’s already being drawn in. Malcolm may need to do something…drastic.

\--- --- --- --- ---

There is a great scale of horrible ideas Malcolm has actually considered; its range runs something like 1 (letting Gil sit in on his therapy sessions) to 10 (jumping repeatedly out his window to see why falling feels so familiar in his dreams). Visiting his father while his head’s messed up, (more than the usual) falls somewhere near an 8. Maybe a 9. Not a good sign when 10 results in his death. Yet he still finds himself walking down the prison hall, his eyes locked on the door at the end to avoid looking at how the walls are bearing down on him more and more with each step he takes. But that would be ridiculous, so he pushes away any anxiety as he waits to be buzzed in.

“Malcolm,” His father turns and smiles at him. “My boy.” Dr. Whitly never seems to change. White jumpsuit, soft sweater, always turning to him with that soft delighted grin; Malcolm’s stomach churns with the realization that in his chaotic life, his father may be one of the only steady constants.

“Ainsley wants to see you.” He cuts his father off with a look. “Don’t get excited, for an interview. Why did the Surgeon do what he did.”

“Oh.” His father frowns, over exaggerated, a stage actor straining to connect with the far seats of his audience. “That’s overdone. I expected better of her.”

“She hopes to use your personal connection to get to the truth.” Malcolm jerks back as the Surgeon suddenly fills his space. He shoots a desperate glance at the line on the floor. Neither of them has crossed it. Yet the dark chuckle is loud enough, close enough, to set his ears ringing. He can still feel every breath on his face as the Surgeon asks, softly,

“And how did that work for you?”

“This isn’t about me.” Malcolm breathes out.

Dr. Whitly leans back in his chair. “Isn’t it?” Something falls over his voice then, like an overlay. “It’s always ‘Malcolm this, Malcolm that. So angsty and fragile.’” His voice shifts back, leaving Malcolm blinking and wondering if he imagined it. “Perhaps my daughter is feeling neglected. Perhaps, when she comes for her interview, I should pay her a bit more attention.”

“No.” Malcolm says fast. Too fast.

“Don’t be jealous, Malcolm! Or is it concern?” He waves a hand, batting it away. “Don’t worry, nothing malicious. A bit of sympathy, a bit of flattery, and a generous helping of good old-fashioned fatherly pride.” He leans forward, hands on knees, same perfectly pleasant smile. “She’ll come crawling back almost as often as you do.”

“She’s not that stupid.” Malcolm steps forward and feels blood splash around his ankles. He looks down sharply. There’s nothing there, just the line he knows not to cross. He looks back up to find his father watching him, eyes gleaming with a soft speculation.

“Neither are you, Malcolm.” He spreads his arms wide. “And yet.”

“I won’t let you get in her head.” Malcolm puts a hand in his pocket, tightens a fist around—

“What are you going to do? Share breathing exercises?” He arches a wry eyebrow. “Recommendation to a therapist?”

“No.” Malcolm stares at Dr. Whitly, ignores the blood rushing in his head, the blood rushing past his feet (there’s nothing there), and pulls the knife from his pocket.

The rushing stops. His father stares at him. “Oh.” Is all he says. “This is a surprise.”

“Is it?” Malcolm steps forward.

Dr. Whitly raises a finger. “I’d be careful, Malcolm, some lines shouldn’t be crossed.” He stands slowly. “Like that one.” He points down at where Malcolm’s feet rest on the very edge of the cell line.

Malcolm steps over it. 

“Will you kill me, Malcolm?” With a question like that, if it was anyone else, Malcolm would expect to hear fear, but his father…

He’s leaned forward now, smile dancing about his mouth, eyes bright with interest, intrigue.

Fascination, a dark voice whispers.

“Just returning the favor.” As Malcolm speaks, he can feel them gathering behind him, like clouds before a storm, heavy with the promise of lightning, twenty-three women.

Carrie Wilson and Faith Griffith, sharing the same body, a hole where their heart should be; Alexis Scott, Sharice Baker, Lyla Thompson, and Janis Long, the Quartet, hands fused together, bodies limp and boneless, yet somehow still standing upright. Billie Franklin, Megan Wong, Abby Conway, Sophie Sanders, woman after woman after girl; this unseeing audience; he knows them all. There is a horror about them; from their morbid positions, demonstrations of the ways a body should not, cannot, be; or maybe from the way they stand blank faced, looking for all the world insensate, but with a presence of active awareness nonetheless.

Martin laughs.

“This is how you plan to get me? With guilt for my victims?” Martin laughs again and it echoes around the cell. With each repetition, Martin seems to grow, taller and taller. “They are experiments, cadavers. Take it apart and see how it works.”

The laugh is still echoing, but instead of fading, it gets louder and louder. Malcolm shrinks back, grip on the knife growing slippery with sweat. “You’re a monster.”

“From you? Oh, Malcolm, you wound me! It’s a very natural impulse; do you not remember the way you used to disassemble your toys to discover their function?” He towers above Malcolm, yet somehow stands eye to eye, “Or the way you now take apart people’s minds in an attempt to know, to understand.” He leans in close. “Curiosity has always been our driver.”

“No!” Malcolm shouts, but he’s not sure if he made a sound. All he can hear is his father’s laughter making his ears ring and ring and…

His phone is ringing.

Malcolm lifts his head off the couch, pages of the file he’d been reading sticking to his cheek. (Tara Jones, the Surgeon’s first victim, she died from scalpel wounds to the throat.) He fumbles through the cushions for his phone.

“Hello?” He looks at the screen. Dani. “Did you get him?” Malcolm hopes she attributes any shakiness in his voice to eagerness to catch the killer.

The phone stays silent.

“Dani?”

“Bright,” She must let out a breath because the sound echoes hard against his ear. “You need to come in. There’s another body.”

Malcolm can’t breathe. “What?”

“Reese Falkner got called in for a body. Easy case considering the killer was caught on camera.” She pauses. “It’s Thomas Kent.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Drop a line, tell me your thoughts :)


	11. Respect Lost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To tell the truth, I almost didn't get this chapter out. This week has been...a week. But season 2 starts tomorrow so there is that :)

**Dani**

“You sure that was smart?”

Dani puts her phone down and looks over at her partner. JT stays focused on the road. The light from each streetlamp they drive past illuminates his face briefly, before falling into shadow.

“Bright has a right to know.”

“Alright.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just—Gil’s already pissed, ya know. And it’s our case, but it’s Falkner’s scene. Gil’s gonna lose it if they start sniping at each other.”

“You noticed that?” She wonders if Bright told him. Or Gil. Or—

“Not blind, Dani.” He retorts and she nods. She’ll give him that. The next light they pass illuminates JT’s grip gone tight around the wheel. “Bright’s annoying and all, but Reese shouldn’t go after him like that. Like, we’re professionals; stay focused on the job.” JT pulls the car up, parks it, neat and easy.

“Speaking of.” Dani runs her gaze over the imposing house looming above them, flashes of blue and red emergency lights dancing off it in a macabre light show. Another manor, another rich man, another family.

Another body.

They walk up the steps and into the house of one Jacob Bradwell. The house is styled much more modern than the last they’ve been in; still ridiculously, obscenely grand, but at least Dani no longer gets the sense that one wrong step and she’d fall straight into a Jane Austen novel.

They are directed through the house quietly and efficiently, and quickly it turns out, because they are only headed to the living room. Dani has a moment of thinking ‘this can’t be right’ before she spots Gil, standing calmly next to Falkner and absolutely radiating frustration.

She grabs JT’s arm and pulls him up short, just shy of the bar of light seeping into the dark hallway. “Living room?”

“Maybe they have more than one.” She can barely see his face in the dark, but his voice gives him away. He’s thinking the same thing she is: a body in the living room isn’t a body discarded in some out of the way corner. A body in the living room is still with the family. A body in the living room means their profile, Bright’s profile, is wrong.

“Detectives, come in!” Reese Falkner’s voice pulls them into the room. It’s lit by overhead lights, outlining sharp shadows from the coffee table, the still running TV, the body on the couch. Falkner gives a nod to it. “This is Jacob Bradwell, 32. Tonight at 9:30, he comes down, grabs a beer and watches the game. At 11:04 Thomas Kent shows up, finds Bradwell asleep on the couch, and cuts his throat.”

That…seems accurate. The TV’s still on, though someone has taken the time to mute it. Bradwell has his arm stretched out over the back of the couch, head loose and tipped back, every inch the stereotype of falling asleep while watching the game, if she ignores the blood spread down the front of him glinting gruesome in the light. She looks and…there. “I assume we’re testing the beer.” Dani gestures at the bottle where it rolled onto the floor, still with a few sips left.

“We can.” Falkner’s brow furrows. “Though it’s not really necessary.”

“Kent’s been using drugs to subdue his victims.” Gil speaks up, coming to stand behind her. Dani relaxes. Gil usually lets Dani and JT take the lead at crime scenes, questioning and prompting as needed, but letting them work through the evidence aloud on their own. Dani loves this; loves the accomplishment of figuring a lead out on her own, loves the way Gil will subtly guide her if she starts to flounder, loves the trust he places in them. Gil pushes JT and her both to their peak but always, _always_ has their backs. And right now, with something about this scene leaving her wrongfooted, like the ground is tipping and could slide out from under her at any moment, she is more than happy to have Gil step up and take the lead.

“Ah.” Falkner holds up a finger. “We have video.”

“I thought these rich types didn’t like anyone intruding on their privacy.” JT says; it’s been an issue before.

“Hidden outlet camera.” Falkner signals a tech to bring a laptop over, video already cued up. He shakes his head, gives a smirk. “The missus thought one of the maids was pocketing some things.”

“Let’s see it.” Gil says, stone-faced. His expression doesn’t change much as they watch Bradwell pass through the frame with his beer or when the tech skips through to where Kent enters, Gil just narrows his eyes when Kent comes back into view, this time holding a bloody knife in his gloved hands. 

“That’s it?” JT asks what she’s thinking. “Just walked in, killed a guy and walked out?”

“That is what happens with most murders.” Falkner laughs, like it was a joke.

Dani heads to the mantle. It only takes a moment to find what she’s looking for; Jacob sits next to his father, fully visible in the tasteful frame; all of his blood is on the couch with his body.

Dani looks at JT and shakes her head. This doesn’t make any sense.

That’s when Bright shows up, looking less put together than he usually does at a crime scene. Less put together than he usually _arrives_ at a crime scene, Dani corrects herself, because sometimes the crime scene explodes or is literally a zoo, and of course Bright is right in the middle of it.

“Why are we in the living room?” Bright asks and Dani just knows this won’t go well.

“Because that’s where the body is.” Falkner speaks slowly, as if to an idiot. The change from his professional yet wryly humorous personality is striking. Dani wonders how many times Bright’s been the only one a perfectly nice person is rude to.

She wonders if he’s used to it.

She watches Bright quickly look over the body, then look at the mantle. The light is setting him sickly pale, sending dark shadows gathering in odd ways across the planes of his face; none quite so heavy as the ones under his eyes, though. “This isn’t right.” He mumbles to himself, then louder. “You’re saying this was Thomas Kent.”

Falkner crosses his arms, leans his weight onto his back foot. “As I already showed the detectives, we have him on video.”

To her surprise, Bright looks right at her. “Was it him?”

“His face and the murder weapon are clearly visible.” She finds herself not wanting to say it but—“Yes. It’s him.”

Bright sighs out and while his shoulders don’t slump, he seems smaller than a moment ago. There’s a footstep, a quick shift of weight as Gil comes up beside her. It feels different, somehow. This time doesn’t feel like support. This time, she doesn’t relax.

“What is this, Bright?” Gil says.

“I don’t know.” Bright answers immediately.

“You said Kent was going after Richard Bresson.” Gil’s voice is tight, controlled. She can’t see his face, but she can see Bright’s, the way he’s dialed in like he and Gil are the only two in the room. “We set up a protection detail on the Bresson house because you said Kent would go after Richard _Martin_ Bresson.” Gil’s voice gets louder.

“It fit the profile.” Bright cuts in.

“Then why is Jacob Bradwell dead?” It’s not quite a shout, but Bright still flinches a bit and Dani feels like she’s stuck at a friend’s house while her friend is getting yelled at by their parent. But that would be ridiculous because she’s not _twelve_ and Bright’s not her friend, and his father isn’t Gil, it’s the goddamn Surgeon.

Bright’s standing very still. “I’ll go back over the files, run it through again. I must have missed something.”

“Obviously.” She hears Falkner mutter.

She wonders if she’s the only one who did, because there’s absolutely no reaction from Bright, but then Gil turns to him and barks, “Finish up with the scene here and then report back to me, I want everything you find reported directly to my team, this is still part of our case.” Falkner’s anger sparks before he pushes it back, but Gil’s already moved on. “Dani, JT,” a hesitation, then, “Bright. Get whatever else you need, then meet back at the precinct. We need to interview the family and find out what went wrong.” He runs a hand through his hair, jerky and fast. “I’ll be busy trying to get the brass off my back.”

Gil turns and strides out; and in his absence, Falkner starts ordering the techs out with the body. His anger is stark in his pacing, in his barked orders, in the way he moves around Dani and JT, but Bright is somehow always in the way.

When Falkner leaves, he turns the lights off. In the abrupt darkness, the red and blue of the emergency lights seem wild and sudden where they flash through the windows. The TV is still on, and its light shines weak and blue over Bright’s face. He’s staring out the door after them, after Gil, most likely, looking more pensive than Dani’s ever seen him.

“What are your thoughts?” She asks him, because she’s got no idea and Gil just left. They still have bloodstains coating the couch, but not the photos and a culprit but the wrong victim.

Bright startles, hard. “What?”

JT hums, with the strangely intent look he gets when he’s about to figure something out, but he says nothing, so Dani presses on. “The case.” She waves a hand at the sofa, the blood, the pictures, and the beer stain on the floor. “What do you see?” 

Bright stares blankly at her for a moment and she’s starting to worry he’s finally lost it, but then he laces his hands together on his head and breathes out, eyes closed. “So, Kent comes in, finds Jacob asleep on the couch, stabs him, and just…leaves.” His eyes open. “No drugs, no pictures, no family imagery.” He slides his hands to the back of his neck. “This doesn’t make sense.”

“Maybe he’s deteriorating.” JT says, calm, more of an offer than a push.

Bright shakes his head. “That would make him wilder, increase the symbolism, the drama. No this,” he blinks a bit, “He just… doesn’t care.”

“You don’t kill someone if you don’t care.” JT argues back, and though his voice is still oddly level, Dani cuts in before things can devolve.

“How would you profile this scene?”

JT turns to her in the half light. “Dani, he literally just—”

She waves him off. “No, I mean…This murder doesn’t fit the profile we have so, how would you profile this scene, without the others.”

Bright squints at her, and for a second she thinks she miscalculated; but then his eyes become hazy, blue light reflecting and turning them unreal as he finally starts to _think_.

And oh, it’s brilliant.

“He enters the house headed toward the stairs, but the TV is on. He walks in and,” A smile crosses over Bright’s face, dark as the shadows around them. “He’s waited for him, ready. It doesn’t matter where he kills him, so long as there’s a body.” Bright’s hand twitches at his side, not the tremor, but like he’s holding something, grasping on, as he continues. “He kills him with a knife, one he brought with him, not a weapon of convenience. A knife is personal, intimate, but the kill itself…” He fades off, hand dropping from where it had raised up to eye, no, _throat_ level, “He slices the throat and walks away, doesn’t watch, doesn’t gloat, doesn’t care—” Bright cuts himself off, eyes blinking repeatedly, stance going tight like he’s trying for one last desperate grasp on the insights flying through his brain. “No, he cares. It matters that this man is dead, but not… not because of him.” Bright cuts off again, frustrated. “I can’t.”

“Okay.” JT starts slow and Dani worries he’s going to make a crack about Bright being crazy, but he surprises her. “So, he wants Jacob dead, specifically, but not because of something Jacob did?”

“Yeah.” Bright’s whole body goes loose, and Dani takes a step forward, in case she needs to catch him. “Basically.”

“Alright.” Dani says, when he manages to stay on his feet. “So, we start with that. Do you need a ride back, Bright?”

It’s still dark, but not enough to hide the naked surprise on his face. “Yes, um, yes. That would be great.”

They’re headed out to the car, Bright kept ahead of her and JT so they can keep an eye on him, when her partner nudges her. “Offering up my car, Powell?”

“Relax.” She looks at Bright, remembers the almost otherworldly way he tore into Kent’s mind, his thoughts; and compares it to the messy haired, pressed suit consultant waiting on JT to unlock the car. “He earned it.”


	12. Drunken Sympathy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So last Friday marked one whole year since I started writing this story...and this chapter has one of the first scenes I ever wrote for it! I'm freakin pumped because it's STILL one of my favorite scenes :)
> 
> Sorry for my nonsense, thank you to everyone who's left a kudo, or bookmarked, and an extra hug to those of you who leave comments! You guys keep me going!

**JT**

Whoever made this desk should be arrested.

JT’s been leaning against it for over half an hour and now his back’s stiff, something is digging into his thigh, and he’s no closer to finding out what’s going on behind the closed door of Gil’s office than when he first sat down on the accursed thing.

Obviously, they were in trouble. The brass had marched Gil back to his office as soon as they arrived at the precinct. They filed into the room in one long line of disapproval; the door shutting firmly behind them. Blinds were drawn tight against curious eyes, and JT was left outside while Gil had to explain why the city financed a protection detail on the wrong man. 

“Any news?” Dani comes up behind him, back straight but eyes tired.

“Do you think I’d be standing here if there was?” JT snaps back. He sees the way she draws herself up to hide her exhaustion, the way he set her on the defensive. “Sorry.” He runs a hand over his forehead. “It’s just…” They were wrong. They were wrong, and a man died, and now Gil is on the hook for it. They could be taken off the case or worse, and JT still hasn’t seen hide nor hair of Bright since he first stumbled back into the precinct. JT shakes his head then tries again, softer. “How’d the interviews go?”

Dani sighs, leans against the desk next to him. “I talked to the mom and sisters. Didn’t get much. The guy was pretty abusive to his sisters and to a lesser extent, his mother, so that fits; but there’s no kids or signs of a romantic partner. One sister said he could only manage for a date or two before the girls realized what a jerk he was.”

JT frowns. “Bright said Kent didn’t kill him because of something that Jacob did.”

“But it still matters that Jacob Bradwell died.” Dani finishes.

“Dani,” JT hesitates, “How sure are you about Bright’s theory?”

“This again?” She gives a scoff, “Look Bright’s unorthodox, but he gets results; you saw how he got in Kent’s head at the scene.”

“The scene we didn’t prepare for because we thought Richard Martin Bresson was the next victim.”

“We were _all_ there sorting through files, JT.” Dani says, chin out, eyes strong. “Bright’s profile might have been wrong, but he gave us something to go off of; so, don’t go blaming this on him.” She’s still got that fierce look, and JT has no idea what Bright did to get past his partner’s prickly walls, but whatever it was, Bright’s one of _hers_ now. He wonders if Bright noticed yet; hell, he wonders if _Dani_ did.

“I’m not—” JT throws his hands up. “He’s traumatized, Dani; tell me you see that.”

“You just noticed?” Her voice hits hard, gone flat and blunt-edged from exhaustion or defensiveness. JT pulls himself back and _thinks_ before trying to fit words to what he’s been feeling since Bright showed up at the crime scene.

“A lot of things could be filed under ‘is Gil trying to get us to work with a psychopath’; but the way Bright reacted when Gil yelled at him? The flinching, acting all dazed afterwards? That, that I’ve seen before.” He says, finally.

Last summer his wife’s nephew lived with them. JT didn’t notice anything amiss at first. The kid was so agreeable, always polite, quick to make a joke, or help around the house. But there was always this little flinch, a tightening of his shoulders if anyone in the house was upset. It wasn’t until the first time JT yelled during a football game and the kid almost passed out that JT realized what was going on.

He supposed it was pretty simple in the kid’s head; keep everyone happy, so no one is upset. If no one is upset, then he doesn’t get hurt.

Even after they talked it all through, the flinching remained. His nephew knew logically they wouldn’t hurt him, but his body wasn’t so easily convinced. It took months before he relearned what it meant to be safe. And that little flinch? Well, it seems like Bright has his own relearning to do. 

“Look,” JT turns to his partner on the stupid, uncomfortable desk and makes sure to meet her eyes. “I’m not saying Bright isn’t skilled or talented or whatever. But on cases like this? His instincts are screwed up.”

She blinks twice and looks back at the office door. “That doesn’t mean he’s wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s right either. But,” JT gets to his feet with a groan, “Regardless, he should be here when Gil’s done.” He gives one last look of his own to where the door stays stubbornly closed. “I’m gonna go look for him.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

Bright is not in the bullpen. He’s not in the lobby. He’s not in conference rooms one, two, or three, or in the bathroom down the hall. JT’s just debating whether he should check the morgue, when he remembers the little used bathroom on the second floor. It’s not overly large, but there’s still room for a wall with a little polished wooden bench right in the entrance before it opens up to the sinks and stalls. The stalls are the real reason no one uses it, all the doors are cut just a little too short for anyone to be comfortable. JT pushes open the door but stops short behind the wall at the sound of retching.

Now JT considers himself good at handling stressful situations: getting shot at? Shoot back. Partner chopping someone’s arm off? Find a cooler and bring the ice. Dani working a double during ‘that time of month’? Provide with pain killers, ply with chocolate and other sources of magnesium, and be ready to offer the heating pad he uses for his shoulder. Easy.

But vomit?

JT’s getting ready to try the morgue after all, when beyond the wall a flush sounds, followed by the sound of the sink turning on. 

Slow claps ring in the air, then a light voice. “If it isn’t the man of the hour.”

“Detective Falkner.” Bright’s voice answers, a bit hoarse.

“You know at the start, I was worried about Gil playing favorites, but after tonight,” He laughs, ‘It’s gotta be hard, counting on his little genius then…bam nothing.”

“Kent is acting erratically. The profile—”

“He’s a crazed killer,” Falkner interrupts, “that’s what they do.” The sound of the faucet stops, and the quiet burns in its absence, before, “Of course, you would know about that.”

“The Surgeon isn’t crazy, he’s a predatory sociopath who—”

“I’m not talking about your father.” Falkner cuts him off just as Bright had started to get some fire back in his voice. The implication hangs in the air, as heavy and consuming as the sudden silence that JT doesn’t dare to break. Falkner has no such conniptions.

The question, when it comes, is asked in a casual voice, betraying no ill will; all the malice contained in the words themselves.

“Do you think Gil will be the one sent after you when you finally snap?”

Bright doesn’t even try to say anything back, and that silence more than anything has JT walking around the wall. Bright’s backed against the sinks, Falkner looming in front of him, not quite close enough to be considered an active threat.

“Bright, there you are.” JT takes great pleasure in seeing the way Falkner’s back tightens at his sudden presence. “Dani and I’ve been looking for you.” And how he looks. Bright’s as pale as JT’s ever seen him, and JT’s seen him poisoned. JT strides forward and knocks into Falkner. “Falkner. Sorry. I didn’t see you.”

With the size of the bathroom and the mirrors, there’s no way he could have missed him. They both know that.

“No problem, Tarmel.” Falkner smiles, looking a bit unsteady about the eyes.

“No seriously, I’m sorry, man.” JT grins but keeps his gaze cold. “Don’t want to be known as the guy who harasses coworkers in the bathroom.”

Falkner laughs, an uncomfortable high sound, but JT’s moved on. “Bright, c’mon. Dani wants to go over some stuff with us.”

Bright looks confused. For all his genius, he really can be an idiot; so JT clasps a heavy hand on his shoulder and follows his gut response to get Bright out of there.

They’re halfway down the hall before Bright speaks up. “JT…”

He stops there, and JT takes a few more steps of pulling Bright towards the bullpen before he relents. “What.”

JT can feel Bright’s shaky breath under his hand. “He wasn’t, I mean, you didn’t.” Bright gives a frustrated huff of air. “He wasn’t harassing me.”

JT hums and keeps shepherding the idiot through the hallway. “That’s nice.”

“I mean it.” And he must, because he pulls away from JT to stop just shy of the doorway. “I was fine.”

JT stops too and sizes him up. Bright’s got his chest out, stance planted like he’s ready if JT decides to take a swing at him. His hands are clenched in fists at his side… to hide the tremor, JT realizes. _I got it from my dad._ JT sighs. “Why didn’t you say anything? You could argue around a guy like that in your sleep.”

Bright just _looks_ at him a moment, and JT’s starting to think that maybe _he_ should be the one planting his feet, before Bright’s face twists into some facsimile of a smile. “I guess I got tired.”

Well. There’s not much JT can say to that. To the words or to the tone, strung between false cheer and a bone deep emptiness. So, in place of the words he doesn’t have, he gives Bright a bit of a nod and holds open the door.

The bullpen is filled to the brim; with people, with frantic energy. Everyone’s bustling around, working harder, faster, to cover how they’re all just waiting for instruction. Voices are going sharp, from irritation and tiredness, and working too long under the harsh florescent lights.

Through the fray, JT spies Dani across the room. Having abandoned her vigil by the desk, she’s now conversing with a lab tech; stance solid, uncrossed arms, no signs of defensiveness. She looks horrifyingly competent. JT wonders if she’s fronting like everyone else. He pushes past a frazzled uniformed officer and makes his way over just as she sends the tech away.

“Did you find him?” Dani asks.

“Of course, he’s right—” JT cuts off. Bright is not, in fact, right here. Bright is still across the room where they came in, staring at Gil’s office door like it’s more than the worn and slightly stained piece of wood JT spent his own block of time staring at. JT sighs, giving one last glance to the closed door, and sees it is no longer shut.

The brass files out, much as they filed in, solemn and dark faced, but JT does no more than glance at them; he’s waiting for one last familiar figure to arrive and tell them what’s going on. Gil emerges, and his face is impossible to read; well at least impossible for JT. He shoots a look to see if Bright’s picked anything up, but the guy’s just staring at the floor.

“All right, everyone,” Gil starts, and the room hushes, all pretense of work dropped. “I won’t lie to you. Today was a blow. We made a mistake, and a man died for it.” His piercing eyes scan the room and JT wonders what he sees. Guilt? Shame? Anger? “It’s important to remember the actions and consequences of our job effect, not only us, but the people we are trying to protect. However, as I told my superiors, I still feel there is no better group of people to find and bring this man to justice.” He pauses, and JT can feel Dani’s tension beside him. “They agreed.” Gil finishes and JT can feel his breath of relief echoed through the rest of the room. “It’s still early tonight, I want you all to go home and rest. Hug your families and remind yourself why we do this.” His voice, which has sunk low and intensely thoughtful, lifts. “Then I want you all back here in the morning, with new ideas, and not running on coffee fumes.” Some laughs ring out, and the energy of the room stirs from its stagnant worry. “Now get out of here!” Gil finishes and JT’s left marveling at the change.

Gil’s taken their fear and absolved them of guilt, while leaving the firm pressure of responsibility, and it shows. The frantic energy has died down, replaced with soft conversation as everyone gathers for home, faces left, if not happier, at least not so worn. All except one. 

JT can _see_ Bright spinning himself into tighter and tighter circles.

He turns to Dani. “You free tonight?”

“I had this big case, but now...” She deadpans.

“Cool. Back my play.” He turns and heads towards Bright, who still hasn’t made any move to leave.

“JT, what—” Dani starts but cuts off when she notices Bright. He doesn’t notice them approaching, still caught up in his own head.

JT’s starting to get an inkling that that’s not a good place to be.

“Bright.” JT calls, and smothers a smirk as he jumps. “Me and Dani are getting some drinks, you’re coming with us.”

Bright blinks, wide eyed. “I have to go over the files and—”

“Gil said take the night to relax,” JT claps a hand back on the same skinny shoulder he used to pull Bright down the hall. “What’s more relaxing than a couple of beers?” Bright seems torn but—

“This is called making friends, Bright.” Dani says and he just gives in all in a rush. JT catches sight of his face, expression open and surprised like that has some more meaning to him than it does to JT. Maybe it does. Who knows? It’s not JT’s job to understand the nuances of Bright’s mind. His job is to find them some alcohol.

\--- --- --- --- ---

This, JT thinks, may have been a bad idea.

“23 people.” Bright slams his glass down on the bar. “That’s how many people my father killed. Well, it could be 24 or I could just be crazy but still… One would think, then, if I saved 24 people, that would be it. Debt paid, guilt gone, etc. etc.” He waves his arms hard enough to almost tip him off his barstool. “But then one has to think, what if one of those 23 people became a doctor? The non-murderous variety, of course. And if this doctor was supposed to save X amount of people, then that’s X + 24 people owed. Now of course some of those might have been saved by other doctors, but what if one that wasn’t could have cured cancer! Then that’s about 9.56 million people annually added to our previous total, which only even matters if you take each life as an equal trade, which surely can’t be true but how that is calculated differs greatly depending on your school of ethics. Take a comparison of Egoism and Utilitarianism—”

“Bright.” Dani puts a hand on his shoulder. Bright doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course, utility is defined as the increase or decrease of total happiness or benefit—”

“What do we do?” Dani ducks a wild gesticulation, somehow still coordinated, impressive considering the number of beers JT saw her downing. They’re in a dive, the kind of place that doesn’t mind them showing up so late it’s come back around to early, and all pretty wasted.

JT studies Bright with all the dubious focus of an inebriated person. “Hang tight. I’m gonna try something.”

“That’s not even considering the differences in Act Utilitarianism and Rule Utilitarianism, that can mess with like, everything; but I digress—”

“Hey Bright.” JT clamps a hand down on the back of Bright’s neck, who finally shuts up. JT’s unsure if he’s listening though, so he maneuvers them till they’re eye-to-eye, just in case. “We’re gonna get you home. You,” He pokes Bright’s forehead, “Are going to drink some water and go to sleep. You can be your annoying self in the morning and Dani and I can forget…just all this.” The profiler simply blinks dizzily at him. JT shakes him a bit. “Bright?”

“I don’t sleep.”

“Course you don’t.” JT decides in a sudden burst of inspiration, _right now_ is time to go home. His drunk brain thinks the quickest way to do that is to bodily haul Bright off his seat by the arm.

Bright almost goes flying across the room.

JT frowns down at his arms. Turns out, drunk JT cannot judge his own strength. He frowns at Bright’s arm, still in his grip. Maybe it’s just Malcolm being scrawny? He could ask Dani? He shakes it off. “Come on.”

“But I want to drink!” Bright whines.

“You already racked up a hell of a tab.” Dani (perhaps wisely) doesn’t try to pull Bright anywhere.

“Tab!” Bright perks up, “I can pay the tab. I’m good at paying stuff!”

He looks so proud of himself JT can’t help but laugh.

He is decidedly not laughing when Bright refuses to get in the cab.

“I could punch him in the head.” Dani offers. JT almost forgot what a mean drunk she was.

“Gil would kill us.” He’s weighing whether drunk him can think of a way to get Bright off the lamppost he’s clinging to without damaging himself, Bright, or what remains of their dignity, or if they should just leave him and face Gil’s wrath tomorrow.

“Bribery!” Dani’s eyes light up, “Bribery works on my nieces. You have any candy?”

“I got something better.” JT turns to the lamppost and its unruly occupant. “Hey, Bright! If you come with us, I’ll give you three guesses to what my name is.”

“Really?! Ohh um, James. Jackson! Ju—Ja—Jabberwocky!” Bright bursts into giggles, falling all over himself, but he lets go of the post and Dani gets him in the cab, and JT is going home _finally_.

Things get decidedly weirder at Bright’s apartment. First there’s a bird, then Dani says something sounding like “Oh hell no, not again.” And then JT is cuffing Bright with his _nightly restraints_ like this wasn’t a whole new page in Bright’s book of weird. 

“You know that this patient in Canada showed brain activity for over 8 minutes after death?” Bright questions, staring up at JT, all big glassy eyes as he helps _bind his coworker to a bed_.

“Yeah.” JT works at the second buckle. “Don’t have to be a whiz-kid to know that.”

“Not a genius.” Bright mutters, turning his face into the pillow. JT ignores him and gives a light tug on the strap to make sure it’s secure. Just because this is way outside his comfort zone doesn’t mean he won’t make sure it’s done right. 

JT jumps when Bright grabs his hand, restraints rustling. His eyes seem to pin him in place, intense and fever bright. “I think my dad killed me. Now it’s all just brain activity.”

JT stares at him, and Bright’s piercing gaze stares back till all at once his eyes close and he’s asleep. JT jerks back and turns to Dani.

“What the holy hell is wrong with him, man?”

“Other than the obvious?” She’s settled herself on a barstool, leaning back against the counter. “Guys like Bright, we can’t fix him. There’s too much—” Dani sighs and lets her head drop back to look up at the ceiling. “I’m not saying he’s, like, _broken,_ but… the risky shit he pulls? The wearing himself down? We can’t stop that, can’t change him.” Dani pulls herself up, and really looks at JT. “He doesn’t know us, not really. Not enough for…” She’s looking past him now, to the bed. “There’s nothing we can do, JT.” 

JT hasn’t moved from his place balanced on the edge of the bed. A rustle of sheets and he looks down at the other occupant. Bright’s arm pulls up in his sleep; the restraint catches it, and he scrunches his nose up before letting his arm drop back down to his side. It’s a stupid expression; he looks ridiculous, but something about witnessing such an unguarded moment has JT’s brain working through the hazy buzz of alcohol.

“You’re saying we can’t help because he doesn’t trust us, right?”

“Yup.” Dani yawns, already falling into the tired, sleepy stage of drunkenness.

“Well then,” JT stands, staggers a bit, and makes sure Dani stands up after him, “We’ll just have to find someone he does.”


	13. Judgement Calls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads up! This one gets a bit....emotionally intense? So if you are looking for a straightforward happy pick-me-up after a bad day....
> 
> Maybe hold off :)

**Gil**

Gil has a little habit, a quirk really, when he walks in the front door of his house after a long day at work. He’ll take off his shoes, put them under the bench, hang his coat on the hook. Then, on good days, he’ll turn on all the lights, so his house shines safe and warm and welcoming, more of a home than it’s been in years. On bad days, when light will only highlight empty rooms, he leaves them off. It’s easy enough to navigate around the furniture, and there’s no one to leave clothes on the floor or rearrange the living room because _Gil, Baby, I think I finally set it just right._

Tonight, Gil leaves the lights off.

He heats up his food and sits at the little two-seater breakfast table tucked away in the corner of the kitchen, just under the small window that sets the kitchen to a shining glow each morning. As he eats, the quiet gets to him, the general absence of sound leaving far too much space for thoughts of the case, and _Bright_ , and that near disastrous meeting with the brass.

They weren’t happy with him; weren’t happy with the case, with the money the city forked over to protect Mr. Bresson, or the hit to their reputation from signing off on a useless protection detail. They thought Gil relied too much on his profiler, or really, _civilian consultant,_ and weren’t shy about saying so.

_Pet project_ was another term Gil heard bandied about, by those who’d been at the precinct long enough to remember a wide-blue-eyed little boy with a hand tremor following Gil like a shadow.

In the end, the brass agreed to let him keep the case; so long as he was careful not to be ‘unduly influenced by his personal connection’. Gil recognized the phrase for what it was: a warning. Gil sighs and turns on the radio.

It doesn’t really help.

The quiet’s back after dinner, when he climbs the stairs up to the narrow hall between the master and the guest bedroom, the kind of quiet that turns normal sounds strange and loud; so when his phone starts blaring with an incoming call, it feels far more momentous than it should. He curses a bit, because it’s been that kind of day, and fumbles it out of his pocket.

“Gil.” He answers and turns into the guest bedroom—his bedroom, really. It felt wrong to stay in the master, the first few nights after Jackie. He’ll try again, every few months, a night of tossing and turning in a bed that’s suddenly too damn big for just one man, but always finds himself returning to the guest room’s twin bed: a man needs his sleep, after all.

“Hey, Boss.” JT’s voice comes over the phone. Gil raises an eyebrow and sits down on his bed. ‘Boss’ is usually Dani’s term. “So, um, Dani and I are on our way home, right? And uh…” He trails off.

“JT, are you drunk?” Of all nights to be drunk dialed by his detectives.

“Not enough, Sir.”

Gil won’t even pretend to know what that means, and he’s starting to get pissed again, because Thomas Kent and Jacob Bradwell and the goddamn brass and he _really_ just needs sleep but so do Dani and JT, so did they really have to go out drinking _tonight_? Before he can order JT to get a glass of water and go to _sleep,_ JT cuts in.

“Did you know about his thing? Bright.”

Gil grits his teeth. “JT—”

“Cause I knew the kid’s messed up, right? He’s weird. And you bring him in outta nowhere, and yeah, he’s smart, but he chops a guy’s hand off, which is—He freaks me out. And after tonight…” He trails off, and all Gil wants is to _not_ hear JT trash talking Malcolm, or really talk about Malcolm at all. But JT continues. “Look Gil, honest shot? The kid’s not okay. Tonight, he kept talking about balancing scales. Paying back for the Surgeon kills, like it’s his job cause his dad’s a psycho when he was what, twelve?” 

“Eleven.” Gil says and then has to smile a bit at the inarticulate sound from the other side of the phone.

“He’s saved people, the crazy lil…” Gil misses the next bit. “But that’s not enough, apparently, so he starts off on Utilitarianism?”

“Ah. Schools of ethics.” Gil hesitates, but says it anyway. “Dr. Whitly taught him.”

A snort comes over the phone. “Cause that’s who you want to learn ethics from. Damn. He talks to you about that?”

“Once or twice.” In this very guestroom, actually; on nights when Gil drug a teenage Malcolm back from wherever he’d snuck out to. The kid would be drunk as hell, but he’d let Gil bully him into his car and into his guestroom. He never wanted to go back home. Gil always indulged him and took the resulting frigid slight from Jessica in stride, because when Malcolm got wasted was the one time he’d talk about his trauma as more than a biting joke.

“Does he talk about feeling dead?”

“No.” Gil focuses on loosening every muscle that just tensed up. “Not in a few years.” Not since he’d found the kid on the floor of his apartment after Dr. Whitly’s ‘graduation present’ sent him spiraling half out of his mind with guilt. ‘ _Congrats on graduating Quantico, my boy!’_ the note had said. ‘ _Here’s a little something so you don’t forget me in the big wide world of the FBI!_ ’ The ‘gift’ itself was a letter, a confession with enough proof to tie four more victims to Martin’s record. And with that, Malcolm’s long-held suspicions were confirmed, _the Quartet_ were filed as Surgeon kills, and Malcolm Bright was outed as Malcolm Whitly to his entire field.

“I think the case is getting to him.” JT blurts out and Gil snaps back from memories of Malcolm’s incessant whispered condemnations— _I should have known, I did know, I couldn’t prove it, but I should have done_ ** _something,_** _why didn’t I—_ “With his dad, and the abuse. Gil, you gotta do something, I don’t know what but, if you don’t,” And suddenly JT sounds horrifyingly sober, “Something’s gonna give.”

Gil scrubs a hand over his face and sighs, bone deep and weary, and makes plans to see Malcolm in the morning.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

Things don’t feel quite so dim in the morning; Gil knew they wouldn’t. He gets dressed and eats and turns on a game because it’s interesting, not because he needs to fill the room. He’s re-centered and ready to face the day, one problem at a time.

The kid looks thin when he opens the door and Gil finds himself wishing for Jackie to bring one of those ridiculous health smoothies she always made for stakeouts and he always passed off to Malcolm. But Jackie’s not here, Gil is; and Gil’s been too busy trying to catch a killer to notice the way this is killing Malcolm.

“Is this going to be a thing?” Malcolm gestures to Gil. “You, showing up when I’m not dressed?”

Gil hums noncommittally as he follows Malcolm up the stairs. “Don’t start sleeping in the nude.” The look he receives is so full of _horror-disgust-embarrassment_ that Gil finds himself relaxing. At least some things are normal enough. He takes his coat off and watches as Malcolm stumbles into a barstool, somehow less awkward than usual, even if also with significantly less grace. “Hangover?”

“Ah.” The kid looks up with a pained smile. “JT took me and Dani drinking last night.”

“I know, he told me.” He waits to see if Malcolm caught that, but the kid just scratches his back and slumps over the counter with a groan.

Gil shakes his head and hides his smile. “Want some painkillers?”

“Please.” Emerges from the cradle of Malcolm’s crossed arms, “There’s some ibuprofen in the nightstand.”

Gil humors him. In the past, when he found Malcolm hungover at college, he’d made the kid get his own pain relief in some effort towards a deterrent, though he did stay and rub Malcolm’s back the one time it was bad enough to leave him heaving over the toilet. Now, though, Gil’s happy enough to ignore the chance at a lesson so he can prolong this little bit of normalcy.

Right up until he opens the nightstand drawer.

“Malcolm. What is this.” Gil keeps his voice completely flat, because if he lets any emotion in, then he’s going to find himself yelling.

“What?” Malcolm raises his head, so Gil has the perfect chance to see his eyes go wide. “That! Oh, uh, that. Right. So, it’s not what you think.”

“I don’t want to know what you _think_ I’m thinking. Why is there chloroform in your nightstand.” Gil finishes and breathes out hard, staring down at Malcolm with a bottle of chloroform clutched in his hand, and abruptly realizes he has no memory of crossing the room. 

“I was having these dreams,” Malcolm starts, eyes still wide with something far too much like panic. “Well memories, really, repressed memories. Do you know about…” He deflates at Gil’s glare. “Right. So, Dr. Brown suggested the smell could sort-of unlock these memories.”

“The same Elaine Brown running LSD tests on students?” _God, Malcolm, how could you be so stupid._

“She is well known in her field.” Malcolm tries.

Gil bites down on his first response, then his second, and finally just gives himself a moment to breathe until the impulse for responses three through seven passes. He settles on something simple. “And?”

“What?”

“What did you do, have Ainsley watch you while you sniffed it?”

“Ah.” Gil’s heart clenches at the flash of guilt playing across Malcolm’s face. “No. I put a few drops on my pillow and—”

“Dammit, Malcolm!” Gil turns away, sharp. He’d never hit this kid but, _damn_ , if sometimes he doesn’t—

“But it worked.” Malcolm cuts in, insistent and fierce. “I remembered my dad drugging me, the box, _my mom_. That’s why I needed the tapes, see because—”

“Stop! Just, just stop.” He does, which is good because Gil _knows_ yelling isn’t going to help, but if he has to hear one more _goddamn word about his kid endangering his—_

Gil stops _himself_ and breathes out. It’s the fear that’s stirring his anger, Gil knows himself well enough to recognize that, so he allows himself a moment to feel all the horror, the what ifs. What if Malcolm had fallen asleep with his face pressed into his pillow? If the chloroform had stilled him enough that he hadn’t realized the need to move until it was too late, and his body was past responding? Trapped in unconsciousness as paralysis creeps in until his lungs can’t expand and that rabid strong heart stills forever? Would Gil have even known anything was wrong before finding the kid dead in his bed? Gil lets it rush over him like a dark sea wave, and like the tide, lets it flow out again before turning and meeting Malcolm’s eyes.

“Tell me the truth. Before you came back to New York, before I brought you on for the copy-cat; would you have done this?” Gil’s watching closely so he can see the hesitation, the thoughts carefully weighed out sliding into conflict, then the resolution burning in those blue eyes and he knows, he _knows_ , before the kid even opens his mouth—

“Of course.”

_Lie._

He waits a minute, tries to give the kid a chance, but when all he gets is that same sure, lying face. “You’re off the case.” He says and doesn’t wait to watch the panic bloom.

“What? No, no, no, Gil—” The kid scrambles off his stool, clumsy and rushing, and it hits off the side of the bar with a bang.

Gil doesn’t turn to look at him. “After yesterday, with Jacob Bradwell—”

“So, I make _one_ mistake and you’re kicking me off the case?”

“A man died, Malcolm!” Gil clenches his fist, feels the cool glass of the dangerous little bottle still in his hand, and pulls himself back. “It’s not just about Bradwell.”

“Then what? My Dad?” Malcolm’s behind him, and when he grabs Gil by the shoulder and yanks him around, Gil goes with the motion. The kid’s glaring at Gil, all strong and fierce fire like he’s invulnerable, like he doesn’t still have bedhead and sleep creases pressed into his face, like he’s not barefoot and shivering slightly in the cool morning air, like Gil hadn’t almost lost him without even knowing.

Gil didn’t fight Malcolm’s grip on his shoulder and he’s not going to let the kid goad him into a fight now. “This isn’t about your father. Not the way you think it is.”

“So it is.” Malcolm lets out a scoff, and the grip on Gil’s shoulder turns bruising. “What, you think I’m going to go crazy? That I’m going to snap?” He shoves Gil back, a desperate defense masquerading as an attack.

“Of course not, Malcolm!” Gil sighs, lets his head drop. “He was right. Your judgement is too compromised.”

“Who? Falkner?”

“JT.” Malcolm reels back like he’s been struck. “He called this morning, told me about what you said last night. Balancing scales, feeling dead?” Gil risks a step forward. “Malcolm, that’s not okay.”

“Gil.” Malcolm’s voice low and soft, a subtle breaking. “I know I’m not the most stable, but I’m in therapy now, and I haven’t been seeing my dad, and, and I’m helping people.”

He says it like it’s worth it. Like the way Gil’s been dangling Malcolm over the edge without support doesn’t matter if someone _else_ gets help. “Kid.” Gil tries, but Malcolm continues.

“My brain’s screwed up, I know, but if I can use that to keep other people, other _kids_ , from ending up like me?” He steps closer and gestures at the space around them, a little helpless, like his loft could somehow encompass everything that’s gone wrong; from the case, down to the looming shadow of his father. “Isn’t that the point?”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe according to some school of ethics the way Malcolm channels his pain into productivity, into _protection_ of others, makes the initial injury worth it; and if Gil had any mind at all for societal wellbeing, he’d let the kid break himself to pieces and be thankful for the wondrously horrible results, the way Malcolm is.

But Gil’s not Malcolm, and he’s selfish enough to give a damn for the both of them.

“Kid,” Gil reaches out a hand to wrap it tight around the kid’s nape. “You’re killing yourself.” He twists his lips into something like a smile and ignores the twist in his heart at the kid’s cracked open expression, at the way he doesn’t even try to fight the claim. “And I won’t help you do it.” Gil steps back and lets his hand fall. It might be unconscious, the way Malcolm’s hand flies up to his own neck, as if to replace it, but Gil finds himself letting out a breath either way. “We can reevaluate for the next case. Take the time, get your head screwed on straight.”

There’s no answer. Malcolm drops his eyes to a patch of sunlight creeping across the floor and stays quiet. The apartment sits still and taut, like the place is holding its breath. Gil waits.

He’s still waiting as he shrugs on his coat, takes his time getting on his gloves and arranging his scarf; Malcolm won’t look at him. Gil sighs, nods, offers a ‘I’ll see you around, kid.’ And waits for Malcolm to break the silence. 

He’s still waiting when he walks out of the apartment and leaves the kid, _his_ kid, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry...


	14. Fool's Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is... a ride, guys
> 
> So! Check out the end notes for CONTENT WARNINGS; nothing too crazy, just a heads up if you need it :)

**Malcolm**

Malcolm stares at… well, nothing, really; his brain too busy trying to process how this went so wrong. He’s off the case.

He’s _off_ the case.

Thomas Kent is out there killing people, drugging them till they go cold and hard and _useless_ , then cutting them open, cutting them out of their families; and Gil wants him to what? Stay at home and think of how screwed his head is?

No. He throws himself out of his frozen tight stance and starts pacing. He’s got to do something. He’s off the case; but maybe he could pass information to Dani? But no, he’d need the files and they’re in the precinct where Malcolm is _not-allowed-to-go_. Maybe he could get Dani to sneak some out? If he could remember which ones might be helpful to go over, then—He winces as pain shoots through his head, forgotten hangover making a resurgence which, right; Dani probably thinks he’s _broken_ now, like JT thinks.

Like JT told Gil.

Malcolm suddenly wants to throw something. He’s got his hand tight around a glass and halfway in the air before he remembers that throwing something breaks it and he doesn’t want to scare Sunshine because it’s _scary_ when someone bigger than you hurls things at the wall. So instead, he throws himself onto the couch which is not nearly as satisfying and does nothing to quench the absolute _rage_ he feels when he thinks of JT blabbing out secrets to Gil like he’s _concerned_ and _cares_ like he hasn’t hated Malcolm since the day Gil pulled him in to look at the freaking Quartet!

He rolls onto his back and starts the breathing exercises he does when the anxiety is too much and then starts laughing because, look! Exhibit Y of how Malcolm can’t function like a normal human being. And now he really needs to calm himself down before he has that psychotic break Gabrielle is always talking around.

He’s not going to break, or snap, or—or whatever the hell Gil’s worried about. Malcolm does what he needs to for the case, and sometimes it’s risky, but _that’s the job_. Gil’s wrong. He doesn’t have some death wish, and he’s certainly not—

Malcolm makes himself breathe again, long breaths in that make cold blaze in his chest but also loosens the bands pulling tight around his lungs.

Gil will call him back in, right? Once he realizes that they’re stuck, that they _need_ him to solve the case, Malcolm will be back at the precinct. Then it’s just a matter of going over the files, find some hidden piece that he missed, and then—

And then what?

Malcolm doesn’t have to prove he can profile, he has to prove that his personal… _issues_ won’t get in the way of the job. Which is rich coming from Gil! Gil would never have taken Malcolm off the case if it wasn’t for their personal connection, if he didn’t _know_ him, didn’t know how Malcolm could get when a case hits too close to home.

Which is why this whole thing is ridiculous! Thomas Kent was killing abusive fathers before he broke the pattern, and while Malcolm’s childhood was hardly perfect, his dad wasn’t _abusive._ Sure, he lied and killed people and might have drugged Malcolm at least once, but Malcolm’s not one of his _victims_. If he was, he’d be dead, simple enough.

Malcolm fishes out his phone, turns the sound up and settles in to wait for Gil’s inevitable call.

He’s still waiting after he does his yoga and attempts breakfast. He rereads an old psychology book to pass the time, and doesn’t give into the itch to pull out the Surgeon files again because he isn’t self-destructive, whatever Gil thinks. But with every passing hour with no call from Gil, the urge gets stronger. He tries to run over the Kent case, find that last missing part to click the profile together; but his mind feels clouded, like every thought is stuck so deep in his head he can’t see them, let alone pull them out.

The next time he checks his phone, the workday is over, and Gil hasn’t called once.

\--- --- --- --- ---

Walking through the halls of Claremont Psychiatric Hospital has become horrifyingly comfortable. The walls stay the same height, no shifting or looming or twisting or any of the dizzying things they get up to when he visits in his dreams. He can see his father at the desk, perfectly content and writing away, probably _working_ , and that, more than anything, reignites every bit of rage in him. He keeps his jaw wired tight as Mr. David unlocks the door, too afraid of what would come out otherwise; there’s only one person here who deserves his anger.

“Ah, Malcolm, my boy—” Dr. Whitly turns to him and smiles. Malcolm can almost visualize the words dropping from his mouth like poison, leaving bloody trails to fill up the room, trying to drag Malcolm back under. He cuts in before it can.

“They’re kicking me off the case because of you!” He wants his anger to hit hard, a punch, a stab; but Dr Whitly gives no more than a moment’s pause, head tilting to the side; like Malcolm’s words, his passion, didn’t hit at all.

The chair creaks as Dr. Whitly shifts back in his seat. “You’ve been avoiding my calls, you don’t visit.” A quicksilver grin, “You can’t blame me for this one.”

“Almost everything that’s gone wrong in my life can be traced back to you,” Malcolm says, tamping his useless anger back to watch, hyper focused, for the response. He’d long since learned that while words and movements and eyes could all lie, his father’s sense for entertainment would have him leaving clues. A breadcrumb trail of truth, if he could pay enough attention.

Dr. Whitly’s hand flies to his chest, “Why, Malcolm, didn’t I give you the best childhood one could ask for?” He looks the very image of wounded surprise, but the glimmer of mirth in his eyes gives him away. “Pancakes in the morning, baseball in the park, _bedtime stories_ , I even helped you with your studies!”

“Yeah, the drugging was a real favorite memory,” He says, still focused, ever focused for the shine of genuineness amongst all the fool’s gold.

Dr. Whitly freezes for a moment, just the bare second of a machine changing gears, before his hand goes to his forehead, rubbing as though Malcolm was a headache that could be soothed away. “Are we back on this again? Every time you see me.” He huffs out a laugh, all fond exasperation. “It’s getting repetitive.”

“So are the nightmares.”

“You’re having nightmares? Oh, my boy.” He looks sorry and commiserating, and Malcolm’s focus gives way to panic when he can’t find a lie. And maybe that panic is why when Dr. Whitly asks, ‘Want to talk about it?’, he finds himself nodding.

“They’ve gotten worse, more frequent, since I came back to New York.” _Since I came back to you,_ he doesn’t say; because if he gets accused of playing the blame game again, he might just start screaming and he’s not sure if he’ll be able to stop.

“It was a big change for you, switching jobs, moving to a new city,” Dr. Whitly’s lips quirk up. “Having the family right around the corner.” The last bit’s said with the same wry humor Dr. Whitly uses when he’s pulling Malcolm in on the joke; a stage door left open, a peek behind the curtain. When Malcolm doesn’t smile, he moves on, but he leaves the curtain open. “Our dreams often reflect our lives, the stressors our brains can’t process in the waking world. Tell me, what happens in these nightmares?”

“They start out fine, mostly.” He meets Martin’s eyes. “Then you show up. Then I’m running for my life or drowning or bleeding out or—” Something like a choked laugh rips out of his throat. “ _Whatever_. I’m always terrified and the funny thing is…” He stares down the attentive face, meets the eye contact that still feels like a show of connection. “They don’t always feel like dreams. They feel like memories.”

“Memories?” There’s a hesitation, barely, a flash of his gaze becoming something real and wary, before Dr. Whitly settles back in his chair, eyes shifting back to their affable interest. “If your unconscious mind is playing around with your deepest fears, I’m sure the dreams can feel very vivid.” He nods like he’s agreeing, like he didn’t just dismiss what Malcolm said. “And how do these dreams finish out?”

“I end up dead in most of them. Or you do.” He adds, because Martin isn’t the only one who knows how to poke for reactions.

He gets one. Martin leans forward again, eyes bright. “Tell me, how do you do it?”

“Excuse me?” The weight of his interest is enough to have Malcolm shifting back, a reflexive and instinctive response. He feels like he took a step, only to find that solid ground was nothing of the sort.

“With your gun? A knife? Something more…” Dr. Whitly’s gaze flickers to behind him, over his shoulder, at the door, the bookshelf, the brick, the glass. “Creative?” His hands twitch and the rattle of his chain reminds Malcolm of the vast number of ways to kill someone with a chain like that.

“I said you end up dead, not that I kill you.” He can’t help shooting a glance at the cell line.

“Malcolm,” Dr. Whitly’s sigh sounds awfully parental for a man who just ran down all the ways he could kill Malcolm in this very room. “You have so much built-up anger. It’s quite common for children to take out their daily stresses on their parents.” He folds his hands, settles them in front of him. “If killing me in your dreams helps you process through your emotions in a healthy manner…” He grins, the beaming, boyish smile that had patients feeling safe and twenty-three women walking to their deaths. “Who am I to stand in the way of your mental health?”

Malcolm laughs. He can’t help it, even if the absolutely delighted way Dr. Whitly looks at him when he does makes him want to tear his own skin off. “The idea of _you_ helping my psychological state _at all_ is the reason you're locked up here instead of prison.”

“Well, that can’t be true,” Dr. Whitly keeps smiling, “You’re my boy. You must find some sort of comfort in these visits. Why else would you keep coming back?”

“Gil took me off the case.” Malcolm says instead.

“Gil?” Dr. Whitly’s jaw tightens, though the smile stays seared on his face, “Gil Arroyo Gil? Perfect Gil? Do no wrong Gil? Steal my son Gil?” He lets out a snort, and a halted shake of his head. “Never thought he’d fall for the rumors. Shows blood is the only thing you can really trust.”

“It’s not like that.” Dr. Whitly is staring at him, forcing a too deep, too much, eye contact. Malcolm looks away. “He’s worried about me.”

“Worried you’re going to _snap,_ maybe.” Malcolm jumps at the clap of Dr. Whitly’s hands, then curses himself as he catches the gleam in the eyes watching him.

He takes a hitching breath, but his voice is level when he speaks. “That’s not what happened.”

“Isn’t it?” Dr. Whitly stands, and for all that he remains at his normal height, Malcolm suddenly feels so damn _small_. “How often have you been turned aside, excluded? The human mind remembers its forefathers, the animal instinct to _run_ when approached by a predator. They turn you out because they can _feel_ it.”

“No—” Malcolm says and doesn’t think of school or the FBI or _Reese Falkner_.

“They know, Malcolm.” His father steps closer to the line and lets his voice drop to something almost intimate. “They can see we’re the same.”

“That’s not true.” _I’m not talking about your father._

“Are you sure?” He asks, and the walls feel like they’re pulling in. _You’re off the case._ “Why else would he betray you?” His father takes another step forward, and his tether trails behind him like the fatal curl of a snake. “Surely not because of your skill. So then why is he so worried?” He’s right there, in front of him, only a breath away, his _dad_ and—

“He’s worried I’m going to kill myself.” It rings in the room and Dr. Whitly is struck still. Malcolm takes what feels like his first breath since Gil left and fixes his eyes to somewhere along Dr. Whitly’s chin.

“Malcolm—” There’s a slight tremble, a tightening along the jaw as he speaks.

“Or, or drive myself insane or…” Malcolm closes his eyes. “I don’t know why I came here.”

“It’s only natural to seek comfort from—” Dr. Whitly starts and it’s the same crap, the same—Malcolm can’t do this anymore, he _can’t_ so he turns to leave and… “You were right.” Dr. Whitly’s voice is flat, finally _real_ , and that’s why Malcolm stops just a breath from the door. He doesn’t turn; but he stops.

“What?” He asks, and it feels like a betrayal.

“I had been called out for an emergency shift, a train crash, if I remember correctly. When I came back, I found you in my office, crying. I went to comfort you, as a father does, and there on the floor were some of my journals of more… delicate content.” There’s a sound then, the scuff of a shoe on the floor. “Well, you always were a smart boy, even at age nine.”

“Why didn’t you kill me?” Malcolm whispers.

“Kill you? You’re my son!” The scoff comes from behind him, closer than he expected. He doesn’t turn to see how close Dr. Whitly is to the line. “Malcolm, really. We were already in my office, so... A bit of this, a bit of that, and you were sleeping in my arms like a babe. When you awoke, you only remembered a nightmare.” A soft sound, and Malcolm _knows_ his father is smiling at him, “Jess and I spent all day with you, you wouldn’t let us leave.”

“Goodbye, Dr. Whitly.” Malcolm reaches for the door.

“It’s not your fault.” His father calls and Malcolm hates, _hates_ himself for stopping. “You were a child, I was your father, you were far too close to the whole thing to see what was going on.” His voice softens; more _dad_ than Dr. Whitly. “You couldn’t have caught me, Malcolm.”

Malcolm tightens his grip on the handle. “But I did.” He says and leaves.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

Malcolm reads every sign he passes on the walk back outside. You can’t read in a dream, and he’s disconnected and dazed enough to feel the need to check he hasn’t slipped into another uncanny replay of his life. _East hall_ blazoned above a doorway, _Tevin Standish_ glimpsed on a clipboard, _men’s bathroom_ in the lobby. He’s awake, he’s awake, he’s awake.

The cold air outside is both a relief and completely overwhelming. Like this, his senses feel turned up to eleven; the wind has hands, the sky presses down and reaches up in infinite darkness, he can feel the texture of the sidewalk through his shoes. He needs to ground himself before this sensory wave sweeps him out of his head entirely.

He’s Malcolm Whitly—no, he’s Bright, he’s…

He breathes. Tries again.

He is Malcolm. He’s outside. He’s awake.

His father drugged him when he was nine.

He lets the thought rush through him, breathes through it, the way one breathes through a cut or any other injury, enough of a pause till the body catches up to where the mind is shrinking from the pain.

It’s not like he didn’t know. Hell, he’d brought the accusations himself. The fact his dad _admitted to it_ is far more of a shock than the events themselves. His father is one of the most prolific serial killers in history, it’s not like he’d _balk_ —

But nine?

There’s a bench just a ways down the block, probably placed there for all the poor visitors having panic attacks as soon as they stumble outside. Malcolm barely makes it before his legs give way. The metal seat of it burns cold through the fine weave of his clothes and nips at his fingers when he laces them through the lattice holes, turning the soft edges of the metal sharp.

The Surgeon is a predatory sociopath. He has no empathy; his only feelings are those he lets himself feel. Malcolm knows this. He’s the closest thing to an expert on the Surgeon’s psychology that exists, he knows better than anyone what his father is capable of. But he’d thought—

It doesn’t matter. Malcolm underestimated him the same way everyone else did. Fell for the charm, the jokes, the _love_ —

The thought burns inside his head, and he snuffs it out before it can sear its way right through his prefrontal cortex and land smoldering on his lap. Turns out, knowing that he’s being manipulated is not sufficient defense from _being_ manipulated. No wonder Ainsley’s being pulled in. Malcolm can look at Dr. Whitly and see the father he remembers, but it’s tempered by his training, the profile, the _Surgeon_ ; by every textbook he’s ever read on narcissists and sociopaths and gaslighting and ~~abuse~~ —predatory behaviors. Ainsley only sees the story, and the mysterious father she never got to know.

Malcolm huffs out a laugh and untangles his hands from the loose metal weave of the bench seat. Maybe he needs that; to see his dad in black and white… no illusions, no connection; to watch from a distance and let his _training_ discover who Martin Whitly is. Maybe what he finds would be enough to satisfy his sister’s curiosity, before she’s caught as deep as Malcolm.

An idea starts to form. A way he could save Ainsley… and maybe even himself.

With numb fingers, he pulls his phone from his pocket. He dials, and after a series of rings that seem to last an eternity, reaches Ainsley’s voicemail. His breath fogs in the air. “Hey Ains, about that interview you want to do with Dr.—with Dad. I’ll help you.” The relief of making a decision, of having a set course of action, is enough to drive him to his feet. “But you have to follow my lead. I know you’re a good reporter, I do, but this…” He pauses and the cold trails down his neck. _You were right._ “I get you want answers. Trust me, out of all people I understand.” _You were far too close to the whole thing to see what was going on._ He shakes it off. “I just don’t want you to be alone when you get them.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings:  
> 1) Mental spirals  
> 2) General Martin crap and emotional intensity  
> 3) Talk of and around suicide
> 
> Feel free to pm me on Tumblr if you need more clarification :)
> 
> There's only five chapters left... I'm not freaking out. Really.


	15. Full Circle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To be completely transparent right now...this chapter almost didn't happen. I had a ton of family stuff and health stuff happen this week, and then the chapter ran off in a way my emotionally repressed self was not prepared for
> 
> But I pulled through (Obviously :P) and reading back over all your absolutely lovely comments was a big part of that, so thank you!
> 
> So, if you are reading a fic you enjoy this week, consider leaving a note for the author...you never know how much help they can be :)
> 
> Enjoy!

**Malcolm**

Malcolm wakes up quietly, for once. By the time he had arrived home after… everything, his mind and body had fallen into a sort of empty stillness that had lasted straight through the night. 

Now, the sun shines through the windows, delicate and warm, to paint bars across his bed. It’s quiet and still, and he lets himself take a moment to sit and appreciate. He feels like he does after a nice long cry; tired and sore, but somehow lighter, somehow cleaner.

It's not over, Malcolm doubts it will ever be over, but he’s not stupid enough to ruin this reprieve with worries of when things will go wrong again. Instead, he focuses on running through his daily routine, on making breakfast, and on actually eating it, a task he’s in succeeding in when his phone rings.

He performs a quick grab for his napkin and swipes to answer. “Hello?”

“Okay, so how concerned should I be?”

“Hi to you too, Ainsley.”

“Malcolm, I’m serious!” She insists, like he can’t already tell from the sheer volume coming at him. He puts the phone on speaker and set it on the counter next to his plate. “I get a late-night call from you, you _voluntarily_ offer to help me interview dad, you didn’t even try to talk me out of it!”

Malcolm gives a bit of a laugh, covers with a cough. “I could now, if you want?”

“No.” She draws out the word, like it should be obvious. “But you’re okay? Honestly?”

“Ainsley, I’m…” He pauses, looks down at his morning affirmation, _You’re always one decision away from a totally different life_. “Okay. I think.”

“Comforting,” Ainsley says, in a tone that means it's anything but.

He raises an eyebrow despite the fact Sunshine is the only one who can see it. “Do you want me to lie?” Ansley is quiet. Sunshine flaps her wings. “Okay, then.” Malcolm takes another bite of food. “So, what’s the plan for the interview?”

All concerns forgotten, Ainsley starts right in. “Oh! Okay, so. Bev and I were talking; we were thinking less of an interview and something more…” she trails off, Malcolm has no idea where this is going. “They want me to do a podcast.”

“A podcast?” He puts his fork down. “Isn’t that a little outside your area?”

“It’s more personal, more of a narrative,” Ainsley says, and Malcolm can see the truth in that. “Think of it this way, the public has the facts about the Surgeon—”

Malcolm snorts. “Debatable.”

“ _Most_ of the facts, then. What they want is the story. The killer, the victims, the families left behind; the way this one person affected so many others.”

Malcolm follows up on his impulse to put his head in his hands. “Please don’t feed his god-complex.”

“Like the mystique doesn’t already?” Ainsley makes a solid point. “This could be really good, Mal. We get to shape the narrative for once, not him. We interview the families of the victims, have your profile, share _our_ memories and—"

“Wait, no.” Jerking his head up, Malcolm stares at the phone in horror. “I’m just coming in as a profiler, and to support you, not to share some childhood sob-story I don’t even remember.”

There’s a harsh breath from the other side of the line, and Malcolm braces himself for an argument. “Okay.” Ainsley says, and while he knows that won’t be the end of it, he’s content to push that discussion off as long as possible. “I didn’t say this yet,” Ainsley continues, “But thank you. This could be the biggest moment of my career.”

“Does it make you uncomfortable? That it’s because of… dad?”

“Are you uncomfortable that Dad’s the only reason you know Gil?” Reporter to the core, she parries it back at him.

“Sometimes, yeah.”

“Oh. That’s…” Ainsley doesn't seem to know what to say to that, and Malcolm can't blame her. He can't believe he said it in the first place. “No.” Ainsley says at last. “I’m not uncomfortable. He took so much from us, with Mom and…” ‘You’, she doesn’t say, because every once in a while Ainsley trips over some tact. “I want to exploit the hell out of him.”

Malcolm laughs. “Alright. We— alright.” He sobers, listens closely to the phone for any change in her voice, in her pacing, as he asks, “You will listen to me, about him?”

“Yeah, Mal, big bad serial killers are your domain.” The only thing he caught from _that_ was an eye roll.

“Alright, good. Because—” A noise stops him. It sounds like metal, like a key jangling a fight with his stubborn lock. “Ains, I got to go.”

“Is everything okay?” Concern now, in her voice, hesitant but there, conversation come full circle. 

“Yeah, it’s good,” He brushes her off, cranes his neck to get the door in view. “I’ll see you later.”

“Okay?” And the way she asks more than says it proves how effective Malcolm’s attempt not to worry her was. “Love you.”

“Love you too.” Malcolm hops down from his barstool and stands off to the side at the top of the stairs to wait. It doesn't take long. In just a moment, his mother comes into view, arms filled with bags from some ridiculously expensive boutique, and a wine bottle that almost certainly costs more. She turns and—

“Malcolm!” Her eyes fly open wide and the bags fall to the ground with an undignified thump. The bottle is spared, now clutched to her chest like a newborn.

“Hi Mom.” He says flatly.

“You startled me.” The hand not treasuring the bottle goes to her heart. 

“How unexpected to find me in my own apartment.” He says; to her back, because Mother is already striding towards his kitchen.

“Well, I thought you’d be off doing that pointless job of yours;” She says, and Malcolm prays that this is a short visit. Mother helps herself to a wineglass, then glances over her shoulder to give him a raised eyebrow, “Throwing yourself on every bloody knife and psychopath’s mercies.”

Seeing his prayer is clearly in vain, Malcolm settles himself on a barstool. “You know we solve normal murders too.”

“Normal murders, listen to yourself!” She turns, wine in hand. “So, tell me, why isn’t Gil here shoving you at yet another killer?”

Malcolm thinks about arguing but instead, “Actually, I’m off the case.”

“Off the…” She stares blankly for a moment, “That’s wonderful!” She makes an extravagant gesture that really should have spilled her wine; but practice, as they say, makes perfect, so the wine merely swirls in its glass, aesthetic and elegant, like its owner.

Malcolm rests an elbow on the countertop, props his head on his hand. “Why are you here, Mom?”

“To drop off some ties I found,” Malcolm tries to look engaged instead of horrified. JT would laugh him out of the precinct if he knew how much his mom shopped for him, “They are simply darling, your wardrobe really needs—” She stops, lowers her wine to the counter. “ _You_ are trying to distract me.”

He smiles and tries to look innocent. “Is it working?”

“Not anymore.” She leans forward, forearms on the counter. “Now tell me what cataclysmic shift caused you to leave behind one of your precious cases.”

“A few things.” His voice sticks there. He told his serial killer father about his nightmares; why does this feel so much harder? He thinks about lying, he thinks about how that went over with Gil. He reaches out to fiddle with the affirmation card still laying in front of him _. You’re always one decision away from a totally different life_. “I made a mistake,” he says. “Gil called me out for it and…” He taps the card a few times, laughs a bit. “I was furious. But he was right.” He shakes his head, rueful, and puts the card down. “I’m too close to it. I kept mixing things up and I’m remembering things, I think? And—” He stops, finds the envelope of cash she’d given him next to the sink where he’d thrown it when he got back from the lunch. He pushes it across counter until it rests just by her fingertips. “Mom, I can’t leave New York forever. But,” He cuts her off. “I could maybe do two weeks.”

She stops whatever protest she formulated and gives him a considering look. “Well, this is growth.”

And now’s when it gets tricky. “I’m going to talk to Gil, get official leave.” He pauses, eyes where she still hasn't taken the money back. “I’ll take Ainsley with me, see if I can get her to take a break. She works almost as obsessively as I do.”

“In that case.” Mother picks up the envelope, only to tuck it back in his hand. “You will absolutely be needing this.”

“Mom—”

“No, I will hear no more on it!” A put-on wave of her hand and a flippantly airy voice tries to mask her sincerity, but Malcolm sees past it and gives her a look. Mother sighs, lets the mask fall. “Let me help, Malcolm. I can’t do anything about the rest of it, but I have an _obscene_ amount of money.” Her arch smile verges on the edge of ridiculous, but the self-aware twinkle in her eyes is too much to keep him from laughing.

The moment settles between them, all morning light and tentative trust. Malcolm sets the envelope back on the counter, swallows. “Mom. I need to talk to you. About Dad.”

Something must give him away, in his voice, his expression, because Mother comes around the counter to stand at his side. “Malcolm…”

“And I need you not to react.” He can’t keep his gaze from falling to his hands, his thumb rubbing over his fingers as he gives something like a laugh. “You’re going to be so angry. But I— I need you to just…”

A hand covers his own, halting the nervous motion. “Love, what’s going on?”

He stares at their hands; his calloused and trembling, hers smooth and perfectly painted. “I figured it out. That Dad was…about the Surgeon.” He glances up. He can tell immediately she doesn’t understand.

“I was nine.” And there’s the slow bloom of comprehension, eyes widening, mouth opening in a breathless gasp, the way her hand goes tight on his.

Malcolm looks away again. “He used ketamine. I think. He didn’t really say— but he would’ve had that, and ketamine causes confusion and amnesia, disassociation, even hallucinations.” Once he starts talking, he finds he can't stop. “There’s been cases that link ketamine usage to prefrontal cortex development issues, and the prefrontal cortex is linked to personality, decision making, executive function and how it relates to differentiating among conflicting thoughts, future consequences, and telling the difference between good and bad, and you know how much he wants me to…”

“Sweetheart…” Her hand reaches for his face and he jerks away.

“I’m not crazy!” His hands spasm against the counter, and the tremor is starting up. “I know when he’s lying, there’s always a tell if you just pay enough attention. _He told me the truth_ ,” He says, then, helpless, “I’m not crazy.”

Her arms are around him then, shaky hand and all, and somehow Malcolm always forgets the strength in her arms, in her affection, in her love.

“Mom?”

She holds him tight and Malcolm feels his shoulders relax, his stomach loosen, everything unwinding the tighter she holds him. His guard drops down, slowly but surely, even as his arms come up to return the embrace.

Mother presses a kiss to the side of his head. “You know, when you first started trying to remember the time before your father’s arrest, I was so angry,” She pauses, and Malcolm’s breath catches as she continues. “And scared, god was I scared.” She laughs and the part of Malcolm frozen at eleven jerks to life with a scream and a slideshow of every suspicious doubt he’s learned to have. She _can’t_ be saying—

"To tell the truth, I don’t remember half of what was happening then.” Her grip goes tight. “I was so caught up in the idea of Martin having an affair, and my attempts to _forget_ that, that I…” She pulls him back, hands on his shoulders, to meet his eyes. “I missed what was going on right in front of me.” Her mouth twists, and she brushes the hair off his forehead. “I was too afraid to admit, to _see_ what he did to hurt you, what I was too busy with my wine and my pills to notice.” Mother smiles, a brave, determined thing made of regret.

“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” She says. “That I couldn’t save you from him.”

Malcolm stares at her, and he tries to say that he doesn’t need an apology, that it wasn’t her fault, but those truths stick in his throat. He opens his mouth, trusting that he’ll manage to force _something_ out, but to his horror, the only thing that does is a sob.

“Oh, my boy.” His mom says, and it feels like she’s taking responsibility, not taking _him._ She pulls him back in against her chest and he keeps making these awful sounds into the heat of her neck.

“I’m sorry,” he tries, and “this is ridiculous,” and “I don’t even know why I’m crying.” She just hushes him and does that calming little rocking motion that she used to do when he was still small, and he still went to her for comfort. He had forgotten how nice it feels.

When the tears dry and start to feel itchy, he pulls back. He scrubs his sleeve over his face, and he knows his Mother is taking the time to dab her face with a tissue. When their armor is back on, or close enough to pretend, he meets her eyes. “What he did wasn’t your fault. You didn’t need to apologize.”

Mother cocks her head, and doesn’t flinch away from the eye contact, or her next words. “But I think you needed to hear one, anyway.”

The truth of that has him ducking his head. “Thank you.” He gives a lopsided laugh. “Apparently, I needed that.” Her hand twitches, and he catches it in his own. “But I mean it. What happened to me is on Dr. Whitly, not you. You couldn’t have known.”

Her smile is a small thing, enough concession in it that he knows his point hit home. “Perhaps you’re right.” A final squeeze of his hand before Mother is pulling back and pulling herself back together. “We all thought we were a happy family. It’s hard to see things for what they are when you’re in the middle of it.”

Malcolm freezes. Something about that strikes a chord: a tonic, a major third and a fifth set in a new key but recognizable all the same. His mind reels. Because if _that_ is true then…

Then he’s been thinking about the case all wrong.

He looks up at her, wide-eyed. “Mom, I have to go.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

The door’s already open, so Malcolm takes a deep breath and goes right in. One hand cold and slightly clammy from the condensation dripping off the cup, he uses the other to rap on the doorframe of Gil’s office. “Hi.”

Gil’s head flies up from where it’d been bent over a frankly absurd stack of forms and files. His eyes narrow; which is fair, considering _Mt. Paperwork_ is probably, mostly, inadvertently Malcolm’s fault. Gil sets his pen down on the desk with the amount of care he usually gives to firearms. Shit. “Bright.”

“This is for you.” Malcolm plants the smoothy on Gil’s desk with a flourish. There’s a second as they both watch the condensation ring spread across an army of small print before Malcolm helps himself to a chair. Gil eyes Malcolm, then his gift, but warily takes a sip. His eyes pop open in surprise. “I know it’s not exactly one of Jackie’s detox shakes,” Malcolm’s grin is only slightly shaky. “But it probably tastes a lot better.”

“Kid.” Gil softens but Malcolm cuts him off.

“You were right. My head’s not where it should be, and my work suffered because of it. A man died because I didn’t— couldn’t do my job.” Gil winces, and Malcolm moves on before he can argue. He squares his shoulders. “I’m requesting leave, two weeks, at least. Ainsley wants help with a project, and I found out some… news.” He stops and weighs how much he should tell Gil. Honestly, he’s already wrung out from his little breakdown this morning and ripping his walls down after they’ve only just gone up sounds like an exercise in unnecessary pain. He’s been quiet for too long by now, but Gil is patient with him, always has been, letting him get his thoughts back together. “I need to work out some answers,” is what he settles on, “Get the Surgeon out of my head; there’s not enough room for me, him, and whatever killers we’re chasing.”

He looks up. Gil’s looking back and Malcolm is thrown with just how unreadable he is. Malcolm shifts in his seat, feeling all of seventeen. He may have miscalculated. But then Gil relaxes back in his chair and a slow smile spreads over his face.

“I’m proud of you, kid.” He says, and the knot of worry tangled in Malcolm’s core goes warm and soft.

“Great!” Malcolm grins, admittedly a bit giddy, and throws his hands out in front of him. “Hold that thought.”

“Malcolm.” Gil warns.

Malcolm pastes on his best winning smile. “So, I think I know who the next victim is.”


	16. Past Judgements

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow guys, the love from the last chapter was amazing! Seriously, thank you for that <3
> 
> On that note, sorry if any replies were late, this chapter is almost 2000 words longer than I usually write lol All the remaining chapters will probably be about this length as we build up to the end so... sorry?
> 
> Enjoy though, you guys are the best!

**Dani**

Dani rubs her eyes, and while she no longer has the imprint of the Kent files running across her mind’s eye, it doesn’t do much for her headache. The _flump_ of papers hitting the conference table turned case-hub to her left tells her JT’s not any better off.

They’ve been running over the autopsy reports, the case files, Kent’s files, and every other scrap of paper that might hold an even smaller scrap of information for the last two days. By now, it’s only a matter of time, roadblocks, and security cameras before they catch Kent. But catching him before he takes another victim? Well, that is a different matter altogether. And now that they’re running a man down…

She thought about calling him, found her finger hovering over his number half a dozen times; but she and Bright aren’t _like that_ , drunken and drugged and near-death bonding aside. Dani blinks down at her phone that somehow ended up in her hand, closes out her contacts, and places it screen down on the table.

Bright’s a grown man and they aren’t friends, not really. (She doesn’t let herself think of how Gil’s been since he showed up late to work with a rough, ‘Malcolm won’t be joining us, he needs some time’ before locking himself away in his office with only a pile of paperwork for company. The instinctive jump Gil gives every time his cell rings, muscles going tight and hard as a shield as he fumbles for the phone. The way the guarded flatness of his expression crumbles into a flood of quiet relief when he sees who it is… who it’s _not_ , before the next time his cell rings and he tenses back up again.)

“So, the toxicology reports came back clean!” Edrisa declares in her typical manner: walk into a room and continue the conversation she never bothered to start. Dani rubs a hand over her face; Edrisa and Bright both.

Bright, who Gil actually kicked off the case. Bright, who is definitely harboring suicidal tendencies at the least. Bright, who is… now walking into the room.

“Hey, hey, look who’s back.” JT leans back in his chair and lets it spin a bit towards the door, the most movement he’s made since they started hours ago.

Bright smiles at him, a little awkward, but definitely happy. “Hey, JT. Edrisa.” His eyes meet hers, and he’s looking for something in her expression as hard as she is searching his. “Dani.”

“Gil said he took you off the case.” Dani says instead of ‘why the hell are you here’ because Dani actually knows how talking works.

“I did.” Gil guides Bright through the door with a hand on his lower back. “But he had a breakthrough, so we… renegotiated some things.” He turns and shuts the door behind them, like Bright is _staying_. Like he wasn’t just taken off the case for his own safety.

“Look, I’m not asking you to trust me—” Bright starts.

“Good.” Dani says, then flushes, because apparently she _doesn’t_ know how conversation works.

“Okay, ow.” Bright says, lightly. “Listen, I let my personal stuff interfere with my profile. I messed up. I know that.” He looks down over the swath of files, and his hand brushes against the edge of the Jacob Bradwell ME report. “I also know this killer will strike again unless we stop him.”

“So how do we do that?” JT asks, like he’s not the one who called Gil _drunk_ because he was so worried.

“Okay, look—” Bright’s mouth closes almost as soon as it opened and he gestures to the whiteboard instead. “Can I?” Gil looks up from where he’s settling himself the seat across from Dani to give a nod. Permission gained, Bright moves to the front of the room like he’s about to start a lecture.

“In our original profile we were looking for a family: Father, Mother, and Child.” Bright writes each title across the top of the board, forming three columns. “The Father would be abusive, the kids almost fully grown… Just like our killer when his dad died.” Bright writes _Todd Daniels, Maria Daniels,_ and _Thomas (Kent) Daniels,_ one under each column, then looks back at them as if to make sure they’re tracking. “Each kill followed this pattern.” He writes out each victim’s name. “The Hawthornes, the Baileys.” He points at each list, “Father, Mother, Child.” Bright frowns at where the Bailey kids’ names are barely legible. “Does anyone have—”

“Oh! Here!” Edrisa pulls a dry-erase marker from her pocket, waves it above her head like an exuberant auction paddle. “The ones in the morgue don’t work either.” She says to JT’s judgmental look.

“Thank you, Edrisa.” Bright smiles, then turns back to painstakingly trace over the faded names. Dani takes the moment to shoot Gil a judgmental look of her own. Bright is supposed to be home, or at his therapist, not submerging himself in murder just to retrace information they all already know.

“The Bressons,” Bright continues, checking the files for the names, “fit this profile perfectly. Richard is most certainly abusive. That’s what we’ve been going off of, the Father.” He turns to them, all excitement and nervous tension. “When we should have been working off the families!”

“The Mother and the Child?” JT confirms. Dani looks over. His face holds none of the casual derision that used to be the status quo for dealing with Bright. He doesn’t even look incredulous, more like the cautious face he wears when Dani offers a theory he’s still sounding out. 

“Yes!” Bright throws his hands up like what he said had gotten them any further than they’d already been.

“You’re going to need to give us more than that, kid.” Gil’s starting to get suspicious. Good. Bright’s addicted to this kind of thing and if he thinks dangling a lead is going to get him another hit…

“Mrs. Bresson was getting a divorce.” Bright states, full stop, as if that clarified anything. Dani raises an eyebrow at him. He flushes and turns back to his board. “Ennis Hawthorne almost punched me when I suggested there was abuse in his family. Linda Bailey’s friend Janet said Linda would never hear a word against her husband.” He looks at them again—no, at Gil. “Mrs. Bresson wanted a divorce.”

“The killer’s only targeting families who aren’t acknowledging the abuse.” Gil leans forward.

“Or don’t even realize it,” Bright says, and a strange look crosses his face as he adds, “It’s hard to see things for what they are when you’re in the middle of it. Thomas wants to _free_ these families, the way the car accident freed him from his dad.”

“I think it’s safe to assume Maria Daniels never recognized her husband’s abuse.” JT shifts back in his seat. “Damn, Bright.”

“So that covers why Richard Bresson wasn’t killed, if his family identified and were actively fighting the abuse.” Dani cuts in. “But what about Jacob Bradwell?”

They all turn back to Bright, or to Bright’s back, because he is already writing the name under the Father column. “Jacob Bradwell. We assumed because he was killed, he would be considered the ‘Father’.”

“But Jacob doesn’t have any children.” Dani says.

“Exactly.” Bright points at her with his marker. “He doesn’t fit the profile. So, let’s just forget he’s dead for a moment.”

“Bright.” Gil groans.

“Hear me out!” Bright flails. “If we ignore that, there’s only one place he fits.” Bright runs a line through _Jacob Bradwell,_ then re-writes it farther over. “As a Child.”

“So, there’s another Father!” Edrisa bursts out, voice almost as exuberant as the wide grin that splits her flushed cheeks.

“Then why kill Jacob at all?” Dani presses.

“Jacob’s father, Colin, is currently on house arrest,” Bright smirks, “Guarded by the FBI.” 

“Thomas couldn’t reach his target,” Gil says. “The only way Colin would be getting out of that house would be a big family event like a wedding or—”

“A funeral,” Bright finishes. “Jacob is incidental. That’s why there was no ceremony, no symbolism.”

“That’s why it mattered that Jacob died, specifically, but it didn’t matter how he’d killed him.” JT pushes his files to the center of the table. “Damn, Bright,” he repeats. “How did you get all that?”

“Talking to my family, actually.” Bright laughs, a full on honest thing, not manic at all. It’s… a nice change, but Dani’s not distracted enough to miss how Gil’s every muscle tenses; Bright doesn’t seem to notice.

“The Surgeon?” Now JT looks incredulous.

“My Mom.” Bright’s smile drops as he goes white, and he turns to Gil and begs. “Please don’t tell her she helped; she will _never_ let me live it down.”

“Alright, kid.” Gil says, voice casual, showing none of the tension still coiling in his muscles. It’s there though, in the straight-backed way he stands to address his team. “JT, get in contact with the family. See if you can set up a meet.”

“On it.” JT is already reaching for the Bradwell file.

“Dani,” Gil continues, and Dani pulls her focus back on him. “I want you to track down the agents assigned to Colin Bradwell. It would save a lot of trouble if we can bring them in on this.” She nods as Gil turns to the last member of their little team.

Bight’s still standing by the board, just watching, waiting, _listening,_ for once. “Malcolm, sit your butt down and see if there’s anything left in these files you can use.” It comes out strong, an order, but Gil has a bit of a smile escaping around the edge of his mouth. Bright’s already grinning back, even as he sits and ducks his head to hide it, and Dani’s struck, not for the first time, with the sheer number of years between them. In certain moments, when she hears a conversation that she _knows_ has been played out forty times in half as many years, when the built-up trust between them gleams almost visible in the air. It was obvious from their first case and it’s obvious now in the way Gil pauses, looking at the top of Bright’s head already bowed over the files. “Malcolm, you’re sure?”

Bright looks up, meets his eyes. “I’m positive, Gil.” There’s a beat then, that stretches from the present moment, back some twenty years, to when a cop trusted the word of a kid and caught a monster.

“Alright. Let’s get moving.” Gil says.

Dani leaves the sea of files and personal history behind, and goes to call the FBI.

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

Calling the FBI, in practice, turns out to be a wholly frustrating affair filled with ‘wait here’ s, ‘hold please’ s, and ‘let me talk to my superior’ s. Finally, after nearly pacing a hole through the floor, Dani gets three things: a name, an office, and a time. The name: one, Colette Swanson, head agent in charge of Colin Bradwell’s detail. The office: a typical bureau satellite, temporary, on loan till Agent Swanson gets called to another case, no lived-in details to shed light on its occupant. The time: soon enough that Dani is left scrambling to make the meet.

“My detectives tell me you have reason to believe a killer is after one of the witnesses under our protection?” Agent Swanson is a sharp-looking woman. Sharp voice, sharply dressed, sharp look in her eyes as she scans over the case file Dani brought with her.

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dani shifts her weight, feeling not unlike the time she had to go before the brass for a performance review. “Colin Bradwell. We believe the man who killed his son is going after him next.”

“Mmm.” Agent Swanson peruses the file before setting it decisively on the desk in front of her. “Has this, Thomas Kent, been killing multiple people from the same family?”

“No.” Dani stops shifting and waits, the calm, heart-stilling pause before heading into an unsecured scene. “Jacob Bradwell’s death is an exception to his M.O. according to the profile.”

“Profile?” Head tilting to the side, Swanson’s eyes sharpen. “May I ask who your profiler is?”

Dani has the distinct feeling that this is a trap. “Malcolm Bright.”

“Ahh.” Swanson leans back in her chair, runs a long finger over the open file in front of her. “The Whitly boy.”

“Excuse me?”

She raises an eyebrow, cocks her head again like Dani missed something important. “Did you not know? About all the business with—”

“His father?” Dani cuts in.

“Yes, Detective,” Swanson smiles. “The Surgeon.”

“Look.” Dani bites back her first response and, trying to channel her inner JT, defaults to her job. “My team would like to advise you that Thomas Kent will be targeting your witness at his son’s funeral. We suggest keeping him home, if at all possible. Extra security, if you can’t manage that.” She can’t help adding.

Swanson shuts the file with a thwap. “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” She pushes the file back across the desk, and the soft skid of it sounds loud in the wake of that pronouncement. “A man has lost his son, he deserves the right to grieve,” A raised eyebrow highlights her piercing look, “in peace.”

“And his wife deserves the right to grieve her husband too?” Dani bites out and inwardly apologizes to JT.

“Watch your tone, detective.” Swanson gives a smile that feels like a warning. “The bureau doesn’t have the resources to squander on the word of a disgraced agent.”

“You mean trusted profiler?” Dani grabs the file back. The plastic feels slick under her hand.

“Because Malcolm Bright is never wrong?” It stops Dani short. Swanson taps her pen on the desk. “He never rushes into situations he’s not equipped to handle? Never risks his own life…or the lives of others?”

“What are you saying?”

Swanson sighs, sets her pen down. “I worked with Malcolm on a case. A man had kidnapped his bother and young nephew and was holding them in a house. We had STRIKE ready to go ahead, a sniper waiting for the call, but Malcolm _Whitly_ insisted he could talk the man down. By the time we got inside, we found the brother, dead. He bled to death in front of his child while Malcolm was talking his killer into putting down his weapon.” Agent Swanson’s eyes pin Dani to the floor. “Because of Malcolm Bright, we couldn’t save that man.”

“And the kidnapper?” Dani asks.

“Apprehended.” Collette leans back in her chair. “Serving life in a mental hospital if I remember.”

“So, he did save a life,” Dani says and presses on past the agent’s tightening lips and narrowing eyes. “just not the one you were expecting.”

Swanson huffs out a breath. “Detective Powell, you seem like an intelligent and hardworking investigator; you’ve pushed yourself and succeeded in a typically male dominated sphere.” She gives Dani an assessing, almost approving look before it falls to chiding. “Don’t let a pair of tragic baby-blues take that from you.”

“I—”

“Malcolm Whitly is dangerous.” Swanson stands, hands planted on her desk. “He acts rashly and with a flagrant disregard for other’s lives, and his own, that is borderline psychologically disturbing. In active situations, the only people he cares about getting out alive are the killers he’s obsessed with.”

“He saved my life.” Dani cuts in.

“By offering his own to the killer?” Dani has no idea what her face does, but whatever it is, Swanson comes around the side of the desk to put a light hand on Dani’s elbow. “You forget detective, I know Malcolm; he will never miss a chance to throw his life away.” Her gaze is piercing, and Dani makes no fight as she’s ushered unceremoniously into the hall. “Please inform your lead detective that my agents will keep an eye out, but nothing more can or will be done.” Swanson smiles, “Have a nice day, Detective Powell.” With a soft _click_ , the door is shut in her face.

“Thank you for your time.” Dani grits to the wood. For a moment, she has a wild view of herself barging back in and telling Agent Collette Swanson _where to shove it._

She can’t do that, she _knows_ she can’t do that, so she does the next best thing and texts JT.

_FBI is a bitch_

* _Bust_

Feeling moderately vindicated, Dani heads back down to street level. She doesn’t know if it’s a weakness, her instinct to find backup when things feel out of control. Gil would say it wasn’t, that seeking out people you trust can only make you stronger. But trust has never been as hard earned for him as it is for her, and weakness isn’t people’s running assumption of his character. A notification tone from her phone pulls her back.

_You good? Bright’s got something_

Dani’s pushed past the looming glass doors of the lobby, so there’s no one to see her smile at her phone. Whenever JT opens things to getting personal, he always leaves an easy out. And that’s why Dani doesn’t mind texting him. Trust is funny like that.

_It’s fine. What’d you got?_

She writes. He responds fast, not his usual.

_Bright says Kent will target the funeral luncheon_

_FBI will have the service and cemetery covered since they’re open to the public_

_Luncheon is invite only_

Makes sense. People get careless when they think they’re safe; when they assume the people around them are safe. Dani had to learn that lesson herself, both on and off the job.

She doesn’t get a chance to respond before JT sends a final text.

_On my way to meet with the family now_

_U coming with?_

**\--- --- --- --- ---**

“What took you so long?” JT asks as Dani gets waved through by a doorman who dresses like just one more shining decoration in the crystal incrusted lobby. She’s getting real sick of people rubbing their wealth in her face. She waits until they’re in the gleaming elevator before she answers.

“Meeting with the agent in charge. Very uncooperative.” She glares down the numbers steadily rising until they reach the top floor. “Old friend of Bright’s.”

“He had those?” JT smirks.

“By ‘friend’ I mean she hates him.”

“Ahh. Got it.” She follows JT down the short, tastefully decorated hall to the door. Why the hell is there a hallway when there’s only one apartment? “Here’s hoping this goes better.” JT knocks and a petite woman answers, looking for all the world as delicate and expensive as the glass sculpture Dani can see peeking out behind her.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Bradwell?” JT starts. “I’m detective Tarmel and this is my partner, detective Powell. We talked on the phone earlier.”

“Of course, please come in.” Her voice is as light and soft as the fragrance she leaves drifting behind her as they enter the penthouse.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bradwell, for agreeing to meet with us,” JT says, polite.

She gives a half-there pleasant smile, the kind that isn’t a lie, but like they aren’t worth the effort to make it seem genuine. Dani grinds her teeth.

“We have reason to believe the man who murdered your son will be targeting your husband at the funeral.” Dani focuses on Mrs. Bradwell’s face in time to see her elegant eyebrows fly up like a startled bird. The added bonus is she can’t see the way JT is undoubtably glaring at her.

“We would like to talk to you about security.” He cuts in quickly. “The NYPD is willing to provide a police presence to apprehend the suspect and insure everyone stays safe.”

Mrs. Bradwell’s demeanor goes distinctly chilly. “Agent Swanson assured us there would be no fuss.”

“Did she.” Dani wants to curse.

“Mom?” Dani looks up to see a young woman standing in the doorway. The elegant sedateness of the penthouse clashes with flamboyantly red hair, box dye red, no shades of auburn to be found.

“Angelina!” For the first time, Mrs. Bradwell’s voice rises above the cool, soft murmur. “How many times must I tell you to call Simone? If one hires a personal stylist—” She takes a breath, composing herself, ignoring the mutter of “It’s Angel,” from behind her and turns back to the detectives. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. Having a police presence at such a somber affair would be… uncouth.”

“I assure you; we would be very discreet.” JT keeps his patience better than Dani does, or Gil for that matter.

“As has the FBI. It’s bad enough Colin has that pack of agents with him, but this…” Mrs. Bradwell waves off the idea, lightly, as if the danger could be dismissed as easily.

Dani catches movement from the corner of her eye as Angel throws herself into an armchair and smirks. “I think it’s a great idea.”

Mrs. Bradwell doesn’t even glance over. “Jacob would never have stood for it.”

“Exactly.”

“Angelina!” Mrs. Bradwell turns. “I will not have the police turning my son’s funeral into some… Spectacle!”

“You’re taking an unnecessary risk—” Dani tries, but it’s useless.

“That’s all I have to say.” Mrs. Bradwell clutches at her necklace. “Angelina, see them out.” The door shuts behind her as she leaves the room.

“Well, since I’m apparently the hired help now,” Angel gives a lazy wave. “There’s the door.”

Dani exchanges a look with JT. No point in staying now. They turn to go when Angel’s voice stops them.

“I remember you,” she says, looking dead at Dani. “You talked to me and my sister when—” She stops, bites at her lip. “That night.” Her expression slides into a smirk. “We couldn’t remember your name, so Grace keeps calling you the hot cop.”

Dani lets out half a laugh and shakes her head. “Yeah. Well, you can tell your sister my name’s Dani.” She focuses in then, on the crossed arms and eye contact fluctuating between off to the side and straight on challenge. “How are you holding up?”

Angel huffs out a laugh that’s quickly cut off by its own brittle sourness and drops her head. “They won’t stop asking that. Want to know if I’m ‘upset’.” Despite the red hair blocking Angel’s face, Dani doesn’t miss the mockery in that stumbled word. “No one cared that I was upset about Jacob before he died, don’t see why they care so damn much now.” Dani’s read Kent’s file on the Bradwells, the one on _Jacob_ , and looking at his little sister now, she wishes more than anything that someone had taken the time to care, to _listen_.

When Angel looks back up at them, her chin’s out, eyes sharp like that could hide any of the vulnerability coming off her in waves. “You really think my Dad’s in danger?”

Dani meets the question head on. “There’s a good chance of it.”

“He’s got the FBI team with him; won’t that be enough?” It’s an innocent question, but Angel manages to turn it into a challenge.

JT shakes his head. “In an active situation, being on guard changes everything. And they don’t… share our concerns.”

“Why not?” She asks, and it comes out sharp.

“Bright.” JT mutters under his breath.

It’s enough to throw Angel off her perceived warpath. “What?”

Dani pushes in before her guard can jump back up. “The guy on our team who figured out the killer’s motives, he’s a consultant, used to work with the bureau.”

“Used to?” Angel’s voice is creeping towards mocking again. “So, like revenge of the crazy ex-boss?”

“Something like that.” Dani feels like she’s on the edge of getting through to her, she can see a hint of openness in her face, her voice, before Angel slams it closed again with some biting remark.

“But you trust him?” Angel asks, and it still sounds derisive, but she won’t quite meet Dani’s eyes, and she’s picking at the rubber band around her wrist in an incessant distracting motion.

Dani decides on one last push, one more bit of honesty before calling it quits. “He’s smart, and he cares about these cases, these people more than maybe anyone else does,” she hesitates, then, “It’s personal for him.”

Angel meets her eyes, and for a second Dani thinks it worked, before Angel’s cocking her head and twisting her lips into a sarcastic smile. “And what, _he’s_ personal for you? Grace will be heartbroken.”

Dani ignores the insinuation and lets JT switch gears. “Any chance of your mom changing her mind about a protection detail?”

“People in my family don’t change.” She stares them down through dark eyeliner, and Dani knows this is all they’re going to get today.

JT grabs her arm, “Let’s go, Powell.” But Dani…

Dani still recognizes _something_ in this girl, in the masks and shields and deflecting humor, so she holds out her card instead. “This is my number. Use it if you decide to change things.”

Angel doesn’t move, and Dani’s left with her arm outstretched, card lingering in the air between them. Angel won’t stop staring at her like it’s a test, like there’s a trap hidden somewhere in the 2 by 4-inch rectangle of paper. Dani’s hand feels cold, and she’s about to drop it when Angel reaches out. It’s a hesitant move, and her hand shakes, but she takes the card all the same.

\--- --- --- --- ---

It’s a lot, to leave that in the hands of a kid. But kids can be surprisingly strong, Dani recalls, when she gets a text four hours later.

_St. Paul’s Church. 11 AM. Blend in._


	17. Respectable People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my last JT chapter until book 3 :(   
> Heads up that I'm going to rehash my tags to better reflect the story... nothing scary though, so don't worry :)

**JT**

Saturdays are sleeping in days.

The bed is warm, and Tally’s curled up next to him, sleep soft and lovely. She worked late last night, had barely enough time to eat the dinner JT had saved for her before tumbling into bed. Now, JT kisses at her shoulder and she doesn’t stir, only murmurs sleepily and pulls the blankets tight around herself. JT hides his grin in the burrow of bedding and lets himself settle in the haze of bed and warmth and wife.

His phone chimes with an incoming message. JT groans, rolls onto his back and fishes for his phone to find a forwarded text from Dani. A location, a time, and JT’s left correcting himself; Saturdays _should be_ sleeping in days.

Another text chimes through a moment later.

_We’ll meet up beforehand with Gil at the usual place, see if we can get some backup._

JT looks over at his wife. Still sleeping, still beautiful. Never has he wanted to leave someone on read so badly before. The screen doesn’t have a chance to go dark before another text arrives.

_Oh! Definitely ask for backup, Gil likes that._

JT squints at his phone; he didn’t know he _had_ Bright’s number. He has half a mind to just roll over and leave the whole mess to Dani, she’s more than capable enough. And she wouldn’t be alone, not if she has Bright with her.

Wrapping himself back around his wife, and the blankets around them both, JT closes his eyes.

They pop back open, assailed with visions of bombs and poison and severed limbs… Bright is like the opposite of a good luck charm. If JT’s any sort of good partner, he’d go and back her play, sacredness of Saturday-off sleeping in be damned. No matter how warm the bed is.

With a snuffle, Tally curls away and takes all the blankets with her. Damn. Well, that’s that. 

JT leaves the dubious comfort of a now cold bed behind, and heads to the shower. 

\--- --- --- --- ---

“You’re up early.” Tally’s voice drifts over to the stove where JT is making eggs. A second later she’s pressed against his back, arms coming to rest around his waist. JT relaxes into it. 

“It’s past nine.”

Tally rubs her face against his shoulder blade. “Saturday time.”

He pries her off long enough to turn around and pull her back against himself. “Some work stuff came up.”

Tally nuzzles into his chest with a satisfied hum. “What’s Gil doing calling you in on a Saturday?” When he doesn’t answer, she looks up. “Babe?”

“It’s not Gil.” JT is staring fixedly at the fridge, but when she tugs at his arm, he caves and looks down into her clear brown eyes. “This may not be officially sanctioned,” he admits.

She shuffles back a moment, mouth parted; then her surprise melts away as a sly grin teases across her face. “Oh, is my baby going rogue? Hot.” Her teasing turns, folds into something more serious, though she never loses the twinkle in her eyes. “I trust you. In fact, you have complete permission.”

“Oh, yeah?” With a barely suppressed smile, JT pulls her in against him.

Tally plants her hands on his chest and pushes back enough to wave a finger at him. “On one condition.”

JT hums and rests his head on her hair. He loves the way she smells; always has, always will. “And what would that be?”

“Tonight,” Her arms wind around his neck, “After you get back, we’ll have a nice dinner.”

“You want to go out?”

“No, just here.” She trails one hand down his chest, “Just you and me,” she moves in close, until her breath is hitting his neck. “And after dinner,” she leans up to murmur in his ear, “I better get a _very_ good story covering the time my husband became a rebel.”

“And then?” His words glance off the soft skin of her cheek, low, intimate.

“And then…” She pulls back and JT feels the cold rush in. “You have to wait and see. Depends on how good the story is.” She spins out of his arms with the devil’s smile and says like an angel, “Be careful your eggs don’t burn.”

“Where you going, baby?” he calls after her.

Tally turns in the doorway and gives him a slow smile and an even slower stretch that shows off both her chest and _exactly_ how much fun she’s having messing with him. “I’m going back to bed.” She leaves, every step a sway, purposeful, and JT has no shame in admitting he watched her go.

JT grins. Damn that woman.

\--- --- --- --- ---

The meeting with Gil is less than spectacular.

“No, absolutely not,” Gil says and digs into his plate of hash browns. “I had calls from the bureau yesterday, wanting confirmation that the NYPD wouldn’t get involved.”

“Can’t you do _the thing_?” Bright is here, which would be annoying; JT needs more caffeine before he can rationally deal with Bright’s… Brightness. Or more alcohol. But Bright also paid for all their overpriced coffees so it’s basically a wash.

“Thing?” Gil’s coffee hits the table with an audible _clink_.

“Yeah, where you get all _Lieutenant Arroyo_ and throw around closure rates and…” Bright starts and fades out when they all look at him.

“No, I can’t do _the thing._ ” Gil sounds wildly unimpressed. “With the way the brass is breathing down my neck; I can’t get us official clearance to be within a hundred feet of that church, regardless of your little costumes.” Gil points his fork at their attempts to ‘blend in’ at a rich man’s funeral. JT frowns, this is his best suit; Dani’s wearing a black pantsuit that could kill a man; and Bright’s even wearing neutrals for the somber occasion.

“And unofficial clearance?” Dani asks.

“Don’t you even start.” Gil’s fork shifts to her.

“Or what? You’ll take them off the case too?”

“Bright,” Gil has his eyes closed, “This is the absolute worst time for you to be talking.”

“Okay, okay,” Bright throws his hands up; all palms out, fingers spread wide, _not trying anything here, no, sir_. “It was all super deserved and I’m super sorry and taking lots of leave next week.” 

Gil’s glare crumbles away like nothing. “Brat,” he says, and actually makes to ruffle Bright’s hair. Bright’s hiding behind Dani in an instant; smart move, that’s where JT’d hide too. Gil laughs, and relaxes, and—Yeah, Gil’s not gonna let the kid within ten blocks of Kent, let alone in the same building; hell, Bright’s lucky Gil’s letting him out of his sight.

Bright, because he’s Bright, tries again anyway. “So, we’re just supposed to sit back and do nothing?” He’s peering over Dani’s shoulder, and she’s not pushing him off, which is… Well, JT will call it growth; but that doesn’t change the fact they might as well be running at a wall for as far as Gil’s mind is willing to move.

“No,” JT says and thinks about his wife. “We’re supposed to sit back and trust the FBI team to do their jobs.”

“Thank you.” Gil raises his coffee cup to him in a halfhearted salute.

Bright frowns. “I’ve actually worked with the FBI, and that’s not as comforting as you think it is.”

“Come on,” JT gets up, gathers his keys, his coffee, and starts the hard part of gathering up his team. “I’ll drop you off.”

“But—” It’s Dani who protests, and JT cuts her off.

“Powell,” He warns, and tries to convey _trust me_ in the same breath without the head detective of the NYPD noticing.

He must be somewhat successful, because Gil only says, “Straight home, Malcolm.” Or maybe not, because he follows it with one of his skin piercing glares, “That goes for all of you.”

They agree and get out. Or, more accurate, JT nods along, Dani stews, and Bright tries at least six last-ditch efforts that all crash and burn against Gil’s impenetrable defenses against Bright’s crap.

Dani holds her ire in well enough in the diner, but it rushes out when they get approximately eight steps from the door. “JT, what the hell? We know where Kent is, and we’re going home?”

JT moves down the street, unhurried. “Hell no.” The sound of them both stumbling to a stop and then the rush to catch back up follows him. JT smothers a smile and keeps walking.

“You’re going against Gil?” It’s almost ironic how much more impressed by this Bright sounds than the time JT literally saved his life. “JT Tarmel, bucking authority.”

JT shakes his head at that. “Nah, I’m obeying the highest authority; my wife wants a good story.” He looks at Dani and lets the smile crack onto his face. “Gil’s great boss, but Tally thinks rebels are hot; I know where the money’s at.”

Bright grins, and Dani rolls her eyes. “I’ll be sure to tell the papers of your completely selfless motivation.”

JT shoves back at her and doesn’t say the other half: that Dani and Bright would go ahead with or without JT; at least this way they’ll have someone guarding their backs.

\--- --- --- --- ---

The address isn’t hard to find, what with the media covering the whole thing.

St Paul’s is a big building, all gothic walls and dizzying proportions. It’s easy enough to get into the church; according to what Dani’s gotten from Angel, the viewing’s already over.

They step inside and the rush of the streets quiets to a dull murmur, smothered by years of practiced piety. There’s an inherent sacredness worn into the stone walls, even out here in the vestibule.

“This is for you,” Bright says, not at all quiet, and chucks something at JT’s head, which he catches with a curse. He unfolds this soft bit of fabric… 

“What’s wrong with my tie?”

Bright blinks at him. “You don’t want me to answer that.”

There’s a mirror hanging on one wall, a heavy gilt thing that feels as old as the church itself. Bright goes over and starts messing with his hair.

“C’mon, man.” JT stops switching his tie, (damn thing is _soft_ ) and looks around for priests when Bright leans right up near the _probably-a-relic_ like it’s a public restroom.

Bright doesn’t turn, doesn’t even meet his eyes in the glass. For once his hair’s not slicked back, and he finger combs it forward till its hanging loose about his face. It’s longer than JT expected. “Do you know the chances of someone here recognizing me? I think I saw my _mom.”_ Bright pulls something from inside his jacket and—

Oh, he’s got to be kidding. “Who’s this, Clark Kent?”

“Shut up.” Bright adjusts the glasses. “It changes the silhouette. See, Dani’s got it.” He points to where Dani’s pinning her hair up in a bun in another _probably-sacred_ mirror. JT frowns at her; she shrugs back. 

“Any sign of her?” JT shifts his weight, nods at a passing priest’s narrowed eyes, and tries to ignore his team’s efforts to get sent straight to hell.

“Not yet.” Dani says, but then the doors open with a gust of rowdy life noise and brisk wind, and Angel is there. Her hair’s in a neat bun, style tamed if not the color, and as she looks them over, her eyebrow inches up.

“Come on,” With a shake of her head, she passes them for the heavy wooden doors. “I only have so long before they realize I’m missing.”

The sanctuary itself loses the stifled quiet of the vestibule, the space too massive, with too much light and stained glass to resign to such a muffled feeling. The colors draw JT in; shining green and vibrant purple, lit blues and yellow halos illuminated by the sun, searing red spilling down—

“Oh, my God.”

JT turns and Angel’s got her hand pressed over her mouth, staring.

Up towards the alter there’s a set of frames, each with a picture or series of pictures of the deceased’s life. Jacob alone, Jacob with friends, Jacob with family. Every photo with his father has blood smeared over Mr. Colin Bradwell’s face.

“Are we too late?” Dani asks.

“That’s impossible! I just saw my dad—”

“It’s Kent’s.” Bright walks up to the first bloody frame, cocks his head. “He knows we’re tracking him down; this will be his last kill.” He turns back to face them, smiles. “It makes him unpredictable.”

“Could you try to sound a little less excited?” JT says, and shoots a look to where Angel is pulling her armor back together, shifting her weight, arms crossed tight around herself. “There're civilians here, man.”

“Oh, they’re not in danger. Kent won’t go after anyone who’s not…” Bright stops when his gazes catches on Angel, closed off and shifting away, and course corrects. “Who doesn’t fit his victim pool. He’s on a mission.”

Not really what JT meant, but the information’s useful, at least.

“So, Kent won’t try to take a hostage or shoot into the crowd?” Dani confirms.

“No. That would ruin everything.” Bright rejoins them in the aisle, all earnest energy. “He can’t make his point about ‘removing the cancer’ if he’s taking out innocents too.”

Angel turns to Dani. “Um… Who is this guy?” She snaps.

“Malcolm Bright.” He holds out a hand, which Angel takes with dark suspicion. “Hey,” he prompts, getting her to meet his eyes. “We won’t let anything happen to your family, okay?”

Angel’s eyes go wide, expression cracking open. “Okay.” She takes her hand back and the moment breaks. JT shakes his head. Leave it to Bright to realize what was wrong and put the kid at ease with a single sentence. JT hadn’t even noticed how worked up she was under all the bluster.

“The FBI will be on guard during the burial, we just need to focus on protecting Mr. Bradwell during the wake, which will be held...” Bright trails off with a look at Angel.

“In the church’s banquet hall.” She fills in.

“The Bradwell’s are having a wake in a church basement?” Malcolm looks shocked. JT doesn’t get it. Having the wake at the church is perfectly normal. When his Grandma died, they did the same—Oh. People like the Bradwell’s don’t _do_ what the masses do. Whitly’s either, he supposes.

“Property next door.” Angel makes a motion that would, JT suspects, be a truly impressive hair toss if it wasn’t pinned so tight against her head. “Our family has connections in the church.”

“Ah,” Bright points at her, “The only thing that shows off more power than wealth? Is highlighting advantageous connections. And how are they keeping the masses from getting in?”

“Guest list.” Angel stares him down and JT really doesn’t want to get in the middle of whatever rich kid crap this is. “Mother has the FBI on the entrances, so they wouldn’t _ruin the ambiance_ , or something.”

With a tilt of her head, Dani cuts right in. “Any chance you got us on the list?”

“Mother wouldn’t let me near it, thought I would add some of my ‘unsavory acquaintances’ as a final _screw you_ to her, my brother, and the entire upper class.”

“That can be fun.” Bright smiles, head tucked, hair flopping in his face. He freezes, looks up with wide eyes. “Not at a funeral.”

“We need to get into the wake.” JT moves on. “But with Mrs. Bradwell and the FBI…” He looks around at the three of them. Dani has her ‘thinking face’ on, eyes dark and serious. Angel keeps flipping between watching her and glaring at Bright while trying to look like she’s doing anything but. Bright… Bright is staring down at the floor, biting his lip like he’s worried something is going to come out otherwise. “Bright?” JT prods. “Any ideas?”

Bright drags his head up, face conflicted. “I can get two of us in.”

“Great.” Dani says. “JT and I will—”

“I can get me and someone else in.” Bright corrects.

“No,” JT says.

“Absolutely not,” Dani speaks right on top of him.

“Why not?” Bright throws his hands up. “I was an agent.”

Dani stares at him. “Because I don’t want to arrest my boss when he tries to _murder_ us.”

“You’re a civilian now, Bright.” JT shrugs. “And Dani’s got a point.”

“What about Angel? You’re willing to risk her dad because you’re scared of _Gil?”_ He says it like the very concept is ridiculous.

“Bright,” JT warns and shoots a look over to the kid. She’s not saying anything, just staring at Dani. It’s that same helpless look that makes JT cave every time. _Always the protector,_ Tally liked to tease. Well, Tally was going to get a story and a half tonight. JT sighs.

“ _If_ we let you in there, you _won’t_ do anything stupid.” JT says it like there’s no choice, because who knows what Bright will do if he gets one.

“I already promised Gil.” Bright has his hands up, eyes blinking big and innocent behind those stupid glasses.

Dani crosses her arms, tight and protective. “And we all lied to get here.”

“He attacked her _family,_ Dani.” And damn, JT doesn’t know how Bright picked out Dani’s sore spot so quickly. It’d taken JT years, a night of drinking, and a massive hangover to get the full story about her sister.

Dani stares hard at Bright, then turns to JT. Her look is all fierce fire; she’s taking this one personally, they all are. JT meets her gaze, keeps his steady. She takes a breath, looks away. “JT will go with Bright, find Kent, and subdue him. I’m calling Gil.” She steamrolls any protest. “If you’re going in there, he needs to know the situation. Then we’ll have backup for when you need it.” Fiery gaze meets JT’s again. “The _second_ things go sideways; you get him out of there.”

“I will.” JT promises, ignoring Bright’s indignant huff. “How are we doing this?”

“Oh,” Malcolm aims for airy nonchalance, hits more around gut wrenching determination. “I figured I’d throw the family name around.”

\--- --- --- --- ---

“Are you sure this will work?” JT asks, partly because he wants to know and partly because Bright hasn’t stopped fidgeting since he first suggested the idea almost forty minutes ago. Nothing focuses Bright like the need to convince someone he’s right… well, except maybe a bloody murder.

Bright, predictably, stops fiddling with his cuffs. “I saw my mother, earlier.” Scanning over the crowd as they head towards the door to the reception hall, his eyes catch on the clump of press, sticking out with their cameras and clothing that costs less than a used car. “Ainsley too, probably. Okay, here we go.” His hand clamps down on JT’s arm, and only training and the crowd keeps him from throwing Bright off.

“What are you doing?” He bites out in an undertone, so the sniffling ladies ahead of them can’t hear.

“Getting us in!” Bright insists. “Try to look less like you want to kill me.” JT’s glare is wasted on the side of Bright’s head. He’s too busy staring at the end of the line, well that and shaking JT’s arm in an incessant jittery rhythm. No, not shaking, JT realizes, _trembling._ It seems to get worse the closer to the door they get.

“Name.” The doorman’s tone is polite to a painful degree, mostly hiding the boredom JT can read in his slow hands and eyes that don’t look up. There is no boredom, however, in the FBI agent standing next to him, eyes raking over each guest. The grip on JT’s arm goes painfully tight for a moment, then…

“Malcolm Whitly.” Showing surprise would give them away so JT stays cool even as the trembling kicks up double time.

“Whitly.” The doorman repeats, scans over his list, then looks up with eyes narrowed... at JT. A slight sneer breaks through his polite veneer. “And guest.”

This JT can handle. He detangles his arm out from Bright’s hand, ignoring the slightly desperate grasp it makes. Then he slides his arm around Bright’s skinny waist, lets his hand slip dangerously low, and presses a kiss to the side of his head. “Going on four years now.” Letting his voice fill with pride, he catches the doorman’s gaze… and holds it. Bright’s stiff against him, like this kind of casual affection isn’t something he’s used to, so JT runs soothing little circles on his hip. He can’t look at him to check in, still staring down the doorman, but in gradual starts and stops, Bright relaxes into his hold. Letting that simple triumph fill him, JT smirks at the doorman.

The man adverts his eyes and shuffles his papers, striving to regain his previous disaffected air. “Of course. Down the hall to the left.”

JT ushers Bright into the hall, satisfied that this frozen, flustered version has replaced the shaking one. “You going to tell me how you swung an invitation?”

“I um…” Bright shakes his head, hard. “Mother used to be in a book club with some prominent people, Mrs. Bradwell among them. When I saw her…” JT’s suit shifts awkwardly when Bright shrugs, still tucked up tight against his side. “People like big funerals; rich people don’t mind padding the guest list.”

“It was good thinking.” JT offers and Bright flushes and looks at the floor. JT thinks about teasing him for getting flustered, then realizes it only took some physical contact and a compliment, and keeps his mouth shut.

They turn into the room, door guarded by another agent, and are thrown from the quiet of the hallway into a riot of movement and noise. JT takes a second to survey the space; clean arched walls leading to a sculpted ceiling; round banquet tables bedecked with cascading flowers; band in the back of the room, to their left; on the other side a small stage with a microphone and podium.

“There’s Colin Bradwell.” With a subtle head motion, Bright points across the room to where a wiry man is sitting.

“Great. We’ll stay on him until—”

Bright pulls him back. “We can’t do that. See the lady next to him? That’s Colette Swanson. She sees us, well me, and we are kicked out. And possibly arrested.” He adds as an afterthought.

“Alright, then we just have to find Kent before he strikes.” Looking over the dizzying swarms of people, JT fights for a clear head. “He will have blended in, even dyed his hair, otherwise they would have caught him at the door.”

“Hard to imagine he got in as a guest.” Bright’s focused again, taking in the room even as JT guides them through the crowd. “So maybe the waitstaff? They don’t have photographers at funerals, right?”

“That would be…” A camera flash catches his eye, not a photographer, a reporter. “Bright, the media.”

“No one wants to see a reporter! If he got a media pass…” Bright’s craning his neck, pulling away with frantic energy.

Catching him by the shoulder, JT pulls him back. “Settle down. If you run off, I’ll have a hard time finding you, there're hundreds of people here. Getting separated isn’t safe for _either_ of us.” Bright stops bristling at that. “We need to _think_ , do this smart.”

“Okay.” Eyes close for only a second before they fly back open as Bright scrambles for his pocket. Brandishing his phone like a treasure, Bright makes a call without any explanation. “Ainsley? Where are you?” A pause, during which JT tries to fend off offended stares to which Bright seems completely oblivious. “The Bradwell funeral, I already know that. Where in the room? No—Ains, it’s not… Never mind that. Look, have any of the other reporters been acting suspicious? Yes, I’m serious, it’s—” He cuts off, waits. JT can see the moment she gives them a lead. “Great, thanks Ains. Love you!” He’s barely hung up before the words are tumbling out. “She says one of the other cameramen hasn’t taken a single photo. Brown suit, red hair, heavy glasses.”

“Alright. We’ll start on the left side, work our way to the—”

The thump and screech of a mic being tapped cuts him off. An official-looking man starts his speech of ‘please be seated, the family would like to say a few words’.

“Kent’s going to make his move,” Bright says as Colin stands to polite applause, appropriately muted for the solemn occasion. “I have to get up there, stall. You find Kent.”

JT grabs him by the shoulder, tugs him back. “Don’t make me tell Gil you got hurt on my watch,” he says, and he means _be careful_.

Bright grins. “Don’t worry.” Then, worryingly, “He’ll know it’s my fault.”

With that, Bright moves off. People are shuffling about, crossing and bumping their way into finding their seats. JT grabs a place card off a table to his left and pockets it, then stands behind the chair like he’s waiting on his date to sit down.

Scanning the room for any glimpse of brown, for a hint of red, JT can’t help but keep one eye on Bright’s progress. Colin’s approaching the podium and Bright is almost to the stage when JT spots him.

It’s not the hair that drew his eye, nor the suit, but the way he’s walking, hand hovering over his pocket around a distinctive shape. The glasses and the press badge only confirm it; Kent’s here and he’s got a gun.

JT starts working his way across the room, progress frustratingly slow around everyone still rushing to get their seats before the speech starts. Kent’s toward the front, by the side where there’s fewer people, and he’s closing in on Bradwell. If JT runs at him, if he calls ‘gun’ there will be panic and Kent, no matter Bright’s insights, is still an unknown. He could fire into the crowd, into Angel, into _Malcolm._

It all crystalizes in a moment; a rush of stained glass. The FBI agent is watching Bradwell, not Kent; she still thinks the only danger is from Colin himself attempting an escape. Bright’s at the edge of the stage, aiming to distract, to stall; he’s between Kent and Bradwell, he can’t see the danger at his back. JT’s the only one who sees Kent, and he’s too far away to stop him.

JT shoves forward, ignoring the sound of someone falling and the cursing behind him. Kent reaches into his pocket, and JT’s not going to make it. “Bright! Your left!”

JT sees when Bright clocks Kent, watches his eyes go wide as the man raises his gun, and sees his face smooth out as he decides to do something stupid. Bright jumps. Kent fires.

The ridiculous fake glasses go flying off as Bright and Colin Bradwell go tumbling to the ground.

JT rushes Kent but the gun’s back up in an instant. Bright’s still down, hasn’t so much as twitched, and Kent locks eyes with JT as he says, “No one move, or things will get loud again.”

JT stops, of course he does, because Kent’s got the only gun out in the room, and it’s leveled in the approximate area of Bright’s head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have written and rewritten this chapter like 5 times... It's a lot stronger now, but I had to cut a ridiculously fun scene that just didn't fit anymore.  
> I've posted it on my Tumblr [Here](https://a41-i-finally-caved.tumblr.com/post/643828806037192704/and-the-mind-follows-outtake) if you want a laugh! (All hail the demon baby)


	18. Playing Sympathies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check the end-notes for some mild warnings :)
> 
> Here's another long chapter because I apparently write those now...
> 
> I ripped this chapter down to just dialogue and built it back up from the bones. I think if I have to read it over again I will cry, so please enjoy! Also, I prioritized a good story over realism here, but y'all should already know that about me :)

**Gil**

Jackie used to talk about this sensation, this strangeness, when she’d go and play on any other piano besides their well-loved upright nestled into the corner of the living room. The keys were the same; the notes were the same, yet there is always a sense of wrongness, like the keys are spaced just slightly off from where they should be. She’d laugh at the fumbling of her fingers until she got adjusted to the new keyboard, and the strangeness went back to normal.

Gil feels that strangeness now.

The feeling creeps up on him, like the world’s tilting sideways, or running just a beat too fast, a premonition of something wrong or about to go wrong. In the past, his first thought had always been to check in with Jackie, and if she was fine he’d call Malcolm, make sure the kid was eating and sleeping and not spiraling out.

Now, Jackie’s gone, and the piano sits dusty, but Malcolm—Gil gets his phone as far as his hand before he shakes his head and puts it back in his pocket. JT took Bright home, Dani too, nothing’s wrong.

In a move of calculated spite, his phone rings.

When he sees the name, his heart jerks to collide, sick and wet with his stomach. “Dani? This better be a social call.”

There’s a rush of air like she’s bracing herself. “We’re at the Bradwell funeral.”

The world rights itself with a sickening crack. “Damn it, Powell.”

“We found bloody pictures; Kent is definitely here.”

“And you’re calling to rub it in?” Part of Gil hopes so; if only because that would mean Kent is in custody. Dealing with the brass and the FBI would be unpleasant, but ultimately a small price to pay.

“I’m calling for backup.” Dani says, and Gil’s on his feet. “JT and Bright made it into the wake.”

“I’m on my way.” He grabs for his keys, his coat, his radio, and doesn’t stop to think of the ramifications of her last sentence.

“I’m worried.” Dani says. It comes out in a rush; the way her words do when she doesn’t really mean to say them. “The way this case has been…”

“I know. Stay where you are, I’ll meet you there. And Powell?” Gil shoulders on his coat, takes the time to check over his gun before sliding it in its holster with a neat little click. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

\--- --- --- --- ---

A cemetery is a place of remembrance and respect. If today was any other day, Gil would be nothing but reverent, extending courtesy to the families of the dead and to the dead themselves; but today he hurries between headstones, uncaring of the graves he passes. The dead are gone; today is for the living.

“Where are they?” Gil barks as he approaches Dani. She’s standing alone, shifting in a steady pattern that reeks of suppressed pacing.

“In there.” She nods to the brick side entrance from the cemetery into the church. “They haven’t been inside long.” Biting out a quick nod of acknowledgement, he pushes past the squawking doorman to bring back his team.

A meaty arm grabs his. “Sir, you can’t go in without an invitation.” The arm’s owner is young, a muscle head, clean shaven, neat suit barely concealing that he’s carrying. A complete fool if he thinks that’s going to stop Gil.

He flashes his badge in the man’s straight nosed face. “NYPD.”

“FBI.” The guy counters and _doesn’t let go of his arm_. “I have orders from Agent Collette Swanson not to—”

“Son,” Gil cuts him off, “I know four things right now. There’s a killer in there. There are civilians in there. My men are in there. You _are_ going to let me pass.”

The man hesitates, unsure for a brief moment in the face of Gil’s certainty. Gil doesn’t flinch away, keeps his gaze as rock solid as Dani at his back. He has no jurisdiction here, if the guy doesn’t give…

A scream breaks through the silence and shatters their standoff in its wake. Gil takes point, and Dani and the agent fall in behind him with the steady grace of years of training. The hallway is a straight shot to a door down on the other end, already cracked open. Through the door they find the frozen tight chaos of a hostage situation.

Straight ahead, the gunman, Kent, it’s Kent, they were _right_ , barely spares them a glance. “Apologies for the interruption. If everyone would please remain seated.” It’s said calmly, politely even, but that softness is belied by the gun pointing at two figures on the ground in front of his feet.

“Drop the gun, Kent.” Gil’s got Dani on his left, the FBI agent to his right, and all three of them have their guns out. Gil locks gazes with the man even as he trains his gun center mass. He’d prefer this to end peaceably, but there're hostages now, and that changes the game.

Gil finds JT, hands up in a loose surrender, standing not two yards from where Kent commands center stage. With his position Kent can see everything, everyone, from the nervously shifting civilians to the alert woman sitting with the Bradwell family. She’s not looking at Kent, she’s watching the agent next to Gil.

She’s the FBI agent in charge, Swanson, he realizes. Gil makes eye contact with her and shakes his head. Hold. Don’t spook anyone. Her eyes narrow, but she gives a faint nod, conceding.

Kent’s gun stays trained on the figures on the floor. “I have business with Mr. Bradwell. _Don’t_ escalate the situation, officers.”

There’s a groan, then a voice comes from the ground, and Gil realizes with the kind of dim, over-shocked horror that one of the figures is _Malcolm_. “No one wants to escalate anything. In fact, if everyone could lower their weapons, that’d be great.” Bright’s got himself spread awkwardly over the other figure on the ground. A man, thin, dark suit…

“Who the hell are you?” The figure speaks and shifts, and Gil recognizes him as the only person he could be, the next victim, Colin Bradwell.

“Me?” Malcolm pushes up a bit, hair hanging down into his face as he shifts to look at the man he’s laying on top of. “Malcolm Bright, profiler.” Gil gets the distinct feeling he’d try to offer the man a handshake, barring their current predicament. Bright gives a little toss of his head, something to direct Bradwell’s attention to the man standing behind his back. “He’s Thomas Kent, your wife hired him as a family therapist.” Bradwell moves like he’s going to push out from underneath him and Bright slams a hand over the man’s chest, pinning him down.

“Please don’t move.” Bright’s voice turns rough, stretched thin and tight about the throat, and that’s when Gil notices the flash of red running down the arm braced over Bradwell’s shoulder. Bright huffs a laugh. “I’m currently covering the majority of your vital organs. Kent could still aim for your femoral artery and hope you bleed out, but he’s not as practiced with a gun as he is with a knife, which is, incidentally, why we’re still alive.”

Bright looks up and the burning determination in his eyes shines out hard enough for Gil’s gaze to catch and snag on it. Suddenly they’re twenty-one years back and Gil’s teasing a wide-eyed kid while he waits on some friendly tea. He remembers that look; the fear locking onto his face like the kid could pull something from it, till it gave in the face of single-minded desperate courage. _You should take out your gun._ Now, it’s Malcolm who looks away, who breaks the moment, Gil still stuck on the same expression on a much smaller face. Bright calls over his shoulder, “Isn’t that right, Thomas?” He glances back at Gil, mouths _trust me, please._

“It’s doctor,” The man says in that calm, cool voice shrinks like using, and Gil’s eyes snap back to him, to the gun now twitching in his hand. “Now step aside.”

Malcolm squirms around to his back, keeping his body between Colin Bradwell and the gun like some idiotic human shield, like he _likes_ getting shot, like guns can’t just shoot through people because that’s what they’re made to do. “I’m afraid I really can’t do that.”

“You’re willing to die for that scum?” It’s not the question that sends chills up Gil’s spine. It’s the conversational voice, so casual for a question that’s anything but. The question is directed to Bright, but Kent’s gaze strays to Bradwell’s face. Gil’s unsure he can even _see_ it, with the way Malcolm’s holding himself, so he’s left with the impression Kent is looking _through_ Bright in his unwavering pursuit of his chosen prey.

“It’s kind of my job, Mr.—” Bright pauses, and Gil can picture the half-smile that emerges as a grimace, as Bright corrects himself, “Dr. Kent.”

A moment ago, Gil would have considered Kent as still, but compared to the way he freezes, focuses, now? That stillness was practically fidgeting. Something about that verbal mistake catches Kent’s attention, and from his angle, Gil can pinpoint the moment Kent’s focus shifts from Bradwell to Bright.

Gil steadies his gun and steadies his nerve, waiting for a single twitch, the barest hint of movement that could be all the difference between standoff, safety, and Bright’s brains splattered against the floor.

Kent’s lips thin before his expression settles back into its habitual blankness. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

“You _are_ pointing a gun at my chest.” Bright sounds like he’s grinning, the lopsided one that screams of deflection, even to Gil.

“My job,” Kent clarifies. “You hesitated, on my title.”

“Very observant.” The grin goes tight around the edges of his voice, strained, but still there.

“When I asked you a question, you exhibited stress responses: you glanced away, you swallowed, I am relatively certain your pulse jumped.” There is a certain emptiness to Kent’s eyes, behind the intelligence, the analyzing and the assessing as he studies this new puzzle, this new obstacle. He tilts his head. “Unpleasant experience with therapists, Mr. Bright?”

Malcolm doesn’t say anything for a moment, then, “You’re familiar with micro expressions. Useful, with your line of work, to tell when a patient is lying, or afraid.” He pauses again, and Gil fights the gravity-strong pull to watch him, to try to gain _something_ from the back of his head, the curve of his shoulders, in favor of keeping his eyes on Kent. He has a falter, a bare glance, when Bright speaks up, “But if you’re trying to psychoanalyze me into moving, it’s not going to work.”

“I could just shoot straight through you,” Kent says, and the emptiness of his eyes has spread to his voice, and Gil tenses. He doesn’t know _what_ Bright’s trying to read from this guy, if there’s even anything _to_ read, but—

“We’ve been searching for you, man;” JT’s hands curl shut, a slow and easy slide from surrender to a ready stance. “You’re not gonna get out of this clean.”

Kent doesn’t look. “Do you think you could kill me before I shoot them?” _Yes_ , Gil thinks. Kent is no marksman; he has no idea that Gil could drop him in a second. And while Gil’s willing to give Malcolm a chance, that _please_ ringing in his ears, he also knows he’ll take the shot.

“I think there’s five of us and one of you.” Dani’s stiff with adrenaline at his side, but she’s waiting on his move, not knowing that he’s waiting on _Bright’s_.

“And yet only one of us has a clear shot,” Kent says, and has the gall to sound _amused._

“That’s enough.” Gil’s steeled himself and he lets that drive his voice. Job first, that’s how he’ll keep Bright safe, that’s how he’ll keep everyone safe. “Final warning, drop the gun and get on the ground.” This standoff is over, and every combatant in the room can feel it. He can see the wave of tense, ready energy reach them one by one: Dani, JT, the agent, even Swanson goes rigid from her seat with the Bradwell’s. They all know this moment, have lived the thread-tight pull before the snap before. Something’s about to give.

“You’re not going to take it,” Bright calls and, damn it all, he’s working from a crouch into standing, one blood coated hand up and outstretched like that could do anything against a bullet.

“Bright, stay down.” Gil grits. He’s ignored, because Malcolm _also_ knows those moments. He knows Gil is fully prepared to sink a shot into Kent’s head and take the cost and weight and therapy of ending a life, because Malcolm stands up.

Malcolm stands up and blocks Gil’s sightline.

He didn’t just block Gil. The agent next to Gil curses and his gun drops. “What’s he doing, boss?” Dani hisses, and Gil can’t force himself to answer. He’s saving Kent. It’s obvious. All four guns in the room are now trained on Bright, because Malcolm has been clinging to the humanity in killers since he turned eleven years old. He _needed to,_ growing up, and Gil never thought that extra empathy was a bad thing until the damned kid took away the only chance for Gil to protect him.

“You have a shot, Thomas; but we both know you don’t want to kill me.” Bright’s voice softens in a way that... It can’t be sympathy, can it? “You don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Kent lets out a scoff, and it’s the first hint of human emotion Gil’s heard from him. “My victims would say otherwise.”

“But your victims aren’t anyone, are they?” Bright presses and _steps forward_. Gil’s heart stutters. “Not to you. They’ve chosen to act in monstrous ways, so they’ve lost any claim to humanity. They’re… the monster under the bed.”

“And what do you know of monsters, Mr. Bright?” Gil watches Bright flinch, though whether at the question or at the way Kent keeps repeating his name in some cheap therapy trick is unclear.

“I know you lived with one. He was…” Bright’s voice fades out as he goes still, “horrible. You wanted him dead, but there was nothing you could do. You were a child. You couldn’t stop him.” Bright shakes his head, ignores the way Kent’s tension is racking up in sharp waves with every word. “This isn’t going to help. You couldn’t kill your father. So now you think killing theirs will make up for—”

“This isn’t about me!” Kent shouts. “It’s about them. When that bastard is dead, their lives will be better. Just like mine. They’ll see, they’ll see him for what he really is, I’ll make them.”

“It doesn’t work like that. Think about your mom.” It’s soft, almost soothing as Bright steps closer. “You hated your father, but your mom loved him, she still grieves him.”

“He doesn’t deserve it!”

“You’re right, he doesn’t.” The soothing falls away to simple hard honest truth. “And Angel doesn’t deserve to see her father gunned down in front of her.”

“Her father? Do you know what that—” Kent cuts off hard, shifts, and suddenly Gil can see the gun again, held in a white-knuckled grip. He can see Kent’s shoulders, shaking. He can see Kent’s _head_.

The protective part of Gil, the part screaming to get Malcolm out of there, damn the cost to his own soul, urges him to take the shot. Malcolm might hate him for it, but he’d be alive to do the hating, and the worst Malcolm could throw at him would land lighter than a gravestone inscribed with the name _Malcolm Evan Bright._ The rest of Gil knows that this is exactly what Bright has obsessively trained himself to do. If anyone can talk down a killer holding a room hostage with absolutely no reason not to shoot… Kent’s wrested himself back under control, but it’s a dim imitation of his previous calm when he asks, “Has your father ever hurt you, Mr. Bright?”

“Like your father hurt you?” Bright snipes back, then throws his hands up as Kent’s hold on the gun tightens. “Look, look! Abuse is about control; about taking choices away. Tearing Colin away from his family isn’t your decision to make. It’s theirs.”

“Theirs?” Kent laughs, a barking short sound. “They don’t even see it. They wanted my help with _Jacob_ , when the real snake was there all along. He was choking the life out of the family.” Kent waves his free arm, wild, and Gil clamps down on all his control. Trust, this is about trust. “Is that better? Is that what you want?”

“No.” Bright’s got his hands up again, and he’s working his way forward. “But this won’t make them hate him. When someone is taken from you, violently? You don’t remember the bad things they did, you remember that moment, you get trapped in whatever you felt right then. Is that fear? Or grief? Or guilt? Love? Is that what _you_ want?”

At the echo, Kent’s face twists. “That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes. That’s trauma for you! It doesn’t _matter_ if he’s a horrible father. Do you know how hard it is to hate someone when a part of you still loves them? When you don’t know _what_ to feel? And when someone tells you it couldn’t have been that bad, not really; and your mind starts to think maybe they’re right, that you made it up. You can’t push back against that. It… that can _break_ you.”

Kent’s just staring, wild-eyed, and for a moment Gil thinks Bright actually managed it. Then Kent’s face shuts down, his voice twists cold and cruel. “And what would you know about being broken? With your suit and degrees and textbook experience.” Malcolm twitches and goes very still. “It’s all so easy to peer into a stranger’s life and diagnose. You know what to do. You know what’s _best_. You don’t hide under the bed, or the closet, or fall down the stairs trying to get away. Your arm’s not broken. You’re not the one afraid.” Kent’s voice slips from that sick softness into a sharp bark. “Arms up, Agent, or I blow his head off.” Gil’s head jerks to the side, to where Swanson is carefully raising her hands in the air, revealing the holster she’d been subtlely working towards. Kent’s face twists, derisive. “Stick to your books, Mr. Bright.”

There’s a pause where no one seems sure what to do, overshadowed by the certainty that the stand-off is about to end. Gil’s finger twitches on the trigger. _Come on, kid; last chance._

“We’re the same.” Malcolm rushes out like a landslide, and his hand tumbles along with it into a steady shaking at his side. “My Dad. He’d always say that.” Malcolm makes a step forward that’s more like a flinch. “And that’s when I learned to be afraid, because if I’m like him… What kind of monster does that make me? You say I don’t know fear?” Stepping closer to Kent, Bright laughs, hysterical and ringing. “I have a psych file the size of your _arm_ because of what my Dad did to me. He got so deep in my head I don’t think I’ll ever stop being afraid. I _understand_.”

The tremor is flaring, but Bright still takes another step forward. “But killing my Dad? That won’t change things. He’s still in my head.”

Another step forward, the gun only a hair’s breadth away, Bright delivers the final blow. “Just like your dad is still in yours.”

Kent positively growls, fingers tightening on the gun. Gil flinches forward a bit, reflexive and protective and helpless, a move he can see echoed by JT and Dani. He clings to his trust with his fingertips and lets that stay his trigger.

Bright doesn’t flinch, even as the gun presses to his chest. “And if I move? And you shoot Colin. That’s not going to help Angel or her mom.” Voice serious, wet, lost somewhere between understanding and shared pain, he reaches a hand out. It’s dripping with blood from his arm, but it holds steady for once, as Malcolm slowly closes his hand around the barrel. “And it’s not going to help you.”

There’s a pause as Kent stares at Bright, not shooting, not speaking, barely breathing. Then three things happen in quick succession.

One, Bright yanks the gun to aim at the ceiling.

Two, a gunshot shatters the silence as Kent fires.

Three, JT _moves._

The gunshot almost drowns out Bright’s cry of pain, though he keeps hold of the gun as JT forces Kent to the floor. Vaguely, Gil’s aware of Dani running over with him, helping JT to secure Kent, as the agent secures Bradwell, but all his focus is on Bright. Bright, who’s standing stock still, gun lowering down to rest at his side, staring down at Kent with an expression Gil doesn’t know how to decipher.

“Bright?” Gil grabs at Bright’s shoulder, firm enough to pull him around to face him. Bright goes with it, easy, until Gil can see his face, his eyes not quite dry and not quite _with it_ yet. Damn.

“Malcolm?” Gil tries. A dazed blink is all he gets. “Alright. Alright, kid, give me the gun.” Only once he pries it from sweaty hands does Malcolm check back in. A jerk, then a shiver that seems to shake the kid’s whole body. “You with me?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m with you Gil.”

Gil runs careful hands up and down the kid’s arms, trying to rub strength and movement back into him. “He get you? You’re bleeding, where’s the blood from?”

“Just, just a graze. I think I tweaked it there at the end with the gun grabbing and—” Malcolm cuts off to crane his head around, trying to check at his shoulder, other hand coming up to pull at his ruined sleeve.

Gil bats his shaking hand away. “I got it, kid.” He helps Malcolm out of one side of his jacket, till it’s hanging across his back and uninjured arm like some odd cape. The once white dress shirt underneath is a complete loss. Gil thinks he recognizes the brand and whistles.

“Don’t tell your mother.”

Malcolm laughs at that, and then he doesn’t stop. He’s shaking a bit all over, and Gil ignores the tacky wet feel of bloody fabric to wrap a hand around his injured arm. JT looks up from where he’d secured Kent, all shadowed eyes before Malcolm waves him off, still making that laughing, gasping noise. “Sorry. Sorry, I have really weird responses to adrenaline, particularly when combined with life or death, mortal danger, etc, etc.” He motions his free arm about, pulling back and sidestepping, energy spilling over in a rush. Gil doesn’t let go of him, just keeps his hand like an anchor around the kid’s forearm, and lets the shock work its way out.

“Thanks for trusting me,” the kid says, and Gil can’t help himself. Malcolm staggers a bit when Gil pulls him in, flustered and stiff like he always is with unexpected contact, before he melts, head falling against Gil’s shoulder as he lets himself be held.

Gil hears a snort and glances up to see JT. He’s trying to look unaffected; but he also passed off Kent to the agent in order to hover behind them, all steady watchfulness. A sideways smile creeps out on his face as he looks them over. “This a new post case tradition?”

Dani comes over with a raised eyebrow, “Do we get one of those too, Boss? Or…” She tilts her head like it’s a genuine question, all calm and serious, but the twinkle in her eyes gives her away.

Malcolm flusters and tries to squirm out of Gil’s hold. Gil lets him go… after taking one more second to reassure himself that that rabbit fast heartbeat tucked under his arm is still going strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings... Spoilers!:
> 
> Discussions of child abuse  
> Mild gunshot wounds  
> In a hostage situation, Gil is prepared to use lethal force... he doesn't :)
> 
> Only one more chapter!!

**Author's Note:**

> UPDATE: I caved and got a Tumblr! Please come nerd out with me over PSon, no one irl watches this show :)  
> You can find me [HERE!](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/a41-i-finally-caved)  
> Come be friends!
> 
> This story is finished! Chapters will be added weekly so I can run a final edit, barring any unforeseen events, the zombie apocalypse, aliens, etc.


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